


~ A Crown of Ash ~

by Spiced_Wine



Series: Blood Harvest [5]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anti-Valar, Drama, Dreams, Dreams of the Gods, Gen, Implied/Referenced Incest, Incest, M/M, Modern Era, Multiverse, OC’S - Freeform, Overmind - Freeform, Paranormal, Portals, Post Magnificat, Pro-Fëanorion, Timeless Halls, Two Bodies One Soul, Violence, myths and legends, post Dagor Dagorath
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:14:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 28
Words: 127,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24090385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/pseuds/Spiced_Wine
Summary: Set directly after A Throne of Shadows, with the Clouds now gutted by fire, events move to the north-west of Scotland. The time has come for Maglor to reclaim the Silmaril of the Deeps.Complete.
Series: Blood Harvest [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693096
Comments: 311
Kudos: 36





	1. ~ To Northern Skies ~

  
  
  
  
  
[](https://postimg.cc/w7ScdWMZ)   
  
  
  
  
  


**~To Northern Skies ~**

~ The day was full of ash and blown cinders. A capricious wind swirled so that they caught, bitter in the throat and they seemed, to Vanimórë, to taste of the sins that had been committed here over hundreds of years: Dead children, women coerced and driven mad, violence, an ancient curse deep in the land itself. Smoke still curled from the shattered windows of the house, rose into the low, grey sky. Three fire trucks pumped water to dampen the glowing embers.

Vanya turned from her regard, arms crossed across her breast. She raised her brows. The expression in her eyes amused Vanimórë; it was so knowing.  
‘Well?’ she challenged.

‘I think he was more than half-way to immortality himself,’ Vanimórë said. ‘I am not so sure that he would not have encompassed it without my aid. Yes, it hurt him, but he recovered quickly enough.’

‘But thou didst intercede.’

‘Yes.’ He shrugged. ‘Impulse. Or perhaps he is indeed the part of the old Vanimórë, the one who wanted to be more but could not, in the end, escape the magnetic pull of Sauron. The part that watched and desired something finer but would not act upon it. But his actions here were enough.’

‘Leon might have done the same,’ she murmured.  
  
‘He might have,’ Vanimórë agreed, unmoved. ‘I am sure any child thou didn’t raise would be as Marcus is. It was Leon’s misfortunes he was not. A toss of the coin.’ He looked up at the smouldering Clouds. It would have been apt, poetic for it to have burned to the ground, aided by Coldagnir’s heat, but the skeleton still stood, gaunt, smoke-stained. A few of the staff stood around, staring. Using one of the staff houses as a base, Marcus was conferring with a shocked Lola Clyde. Fortunately, she had copies of all the paperwork that had gone up in smoke, and the stables and houses were untouched, but Marcus had already decided the horses must be moved. In the cottage, Claire and Luc were sleeping.

‘So, what now?’ Vanya asked.

‘I am considering,’ he said slowly.

‘But thou wilt not abandon him yet?’ She urged persuasively. ‘There is much he could learn from thee.’

‘His path is still his own, my dear. I have said I will disarm the Valar. After...’ He shrugged. ‘This is not my place. And I have things to do.’

Marcus walked up from the stables carrying a tray on which stood steaming cups of coffee. He offered them first to the fire-crew who accepted them gratefully, then walked over.  
‘My thanks. Vanimórë took a cup. ‘Oh, Howard is going to _love_ this.’

‘Damn Howard,’ Marcus said succinctly. ‘I will not rebuild. Before tonight, I would have done my duty but now...’ His eyes snapped away from the ruin. ‘Whatever happens, beyond this world, I want to be part of it.‘ His eyes burned. ‘And so, I am signing over the horses, the stud, everything, to Lola Clyde with, naturally, enough money to continue the business, although it is not running at a loss. We will get an accountant to go through the figures. Well?’ He looked at Vanya.

‘Well, nothing, my dear. She is an excellent choice, and has earned it.’

‘But not Rob Roi,’ Marcus stipulated. ‘And Lola was not sorry. She said she would take him if Claire went with him, but—‘ he broke off, glanced toward the cottage. ‘How are they?’

‘Sleeping.’

‘And you told them everything?’

‘Not everything. Not yet. Enough.’

‘And do they believe you?’

Vanya nodded. ‘Perhaps they do not entirely wish to, and still have questions, but what they saw, last night...’ She spread slim fingers. ‘And now what?’

‘We leave,’ Marcus said simply. ‘As soon as the arrangements are made. There is the house in Scotland, Monica’s aunt lived there. I was looking at it, and it seems ideal for now.’

‘Ah yes, of course, and we could take Rob Roi.’

‘And Claire and Luc if they will come. Do you think they will?’

‘I gave them the choice to forget,’ Vanya told him. ‘They did not take it. Later, they may change their minds; if so, I will deal with it. But for now, yes, they will come.’

He turned to Vanimórë. ‘Does that have your approval?’ He arched his brows. ‘It is a house on the coast.’

‘Maglor must find the Silmaril of the Oceans,’ Vanimórë agreed. ‘And the time is soon. Not that time matters in Valinor, of course.’

‘And after?’

‘Marcus.’ Vanimórë said the name slowly, almost with pity, almost (if one listened for it) affection. ‘What wilt thou do? Because thou still must needs deal with Sauron.’

‘I _deny_ Sauron,’ Marcus hissed.

‘Bravo.’ Vanimórë showed his teeth. ‘But I doubt he denies _thee_ , which is more to the point. If thou art useful, he will not. Quite the reverse. He was here, last night.’

‘I felt him,’ Marcus said slowly. ‘And yet, he did nothing.’

‘He lead Roberts here.’

Marcus’ eyes, violet now as Vanimórë’s own, narrowed. ‘Did he, now?’

‘Luc saw him,’ Vanya offered.

‘Why would he lead anyone to you?’ Marcus turned back to Vanimórë, who shrugged easily.  
‘Perhaps he wanted to see what would happen? Or it amused him. Perhaps he just thought Roberts and his cronies deserved to die.’

‘And then? The bodies?’

‘A few will be found in there.’ Vanimórë nodded to the ruin. ‘And since they came to kill and were caught in their own machinations — meaning to burn the house to the ground they became caught in the inferno...’ He slanted a gleaming look at his sister. ‘No-one will ask questions. As to the others, no, unless one day someone digs very deep.’

‘Carnán drew them down into the earth,’ Vanya told him. ‘She has great power over all nature. She was the reason Claire’s cottage was a haven.’

Marcus seemed to absorb that. Vanimórë shook him free of it.  
‘Marcus. The Exiles, those damned by Námo and Manwë have the right to judge the Valar when they are reborn, but then what of thee? Maglor may have put aside his vengeance, judging that thou art not the same man and that, I agree with, but that does not mean thou wilt be accepted by the Elves.’

‘Were you?’ Marcus asked.

‘It was different for me,’ Vanimórë returned impatiently before Vanya cut in: ‘He was. But he never accepted that he was.’

Vanimórë’s throat closed in a spasm of pain and undirected rage, unless it was directed at himself.  
‘Fëanor accepted me because I was kin.’ His voice was flat. ‘Or shall we say he persuaded himself to accept me. It was in his nature. He would have forgiven his kin anything. But I am not only his kin. I am Sauron’s son, _as art thou._ Dost thou know how to be alone?’

‘Alone,’ Marcus repeated.

‘If thou art not accepted, and _if_ thou wilt not return to Sauron.’ He could not withhold the cynical edge from voice. It brought a flush into Marcus’ cheeks. ‘Art thou prepared to be alone? Think on it.’ He turned, drawing the car keys. ‘I will meet thee in Scotland.’

‘Where are you going?’ Marcus demanded. Vanimórë looked back, haughtily.  
‘I have some meetings to attend, and then I need to smooth Howard’s ruffled feathers.’ He laughed. ‘ _Again._ ’

OooOooO

~ Every morning since that night, Claire had woken with a start, breathing hard, alarm shrilling through her body. And always, at first, she thought she was in the cottage at the Clouds — only to remember she was not. She would never wake up in the cottage again. This morning was kinder but, as she lay in the easy constant before true awakening still, like pieces of a shattering mirror, the memories obtruded, sharp and vivid as cut glass.  
_Gunshots, fog-chill, light-flare; Robin’s headlong bolt into the marshes; fear, rage and horror that transformed into something like (but not quite) shock. The Cloud’s narrow windows glowing like baleful eyes as the fire rose, the explosion of glass shattering, tongues of flame flicking upward._

She remembered how they had stood, watching the house’s immolation, and how she had felt nothing but a sense of relief that something old and evil was being destroyed. It was justice. At last.

Now, floating gently from sleep, Claire turned on her back, spread out her arms. The bed was comfortable, linen scented with lavender. In her languor, the slow gentleness of her waking, she knew she had slept long and deep; her first good sleep since the night of the fire.

_Fire and blood._

She blinked. Above her, the ceiling was higher than that of the cottage, painted a mellow cream. A breath of air stole in from the cracked-open window and she smelt heather, sea-wrack. It was nothing like the air of Norfolk. There was a tang, a clear sharpness.

_“This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air/ Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself/ Unto our gentle senses”_

_But Macbeth is a tragedy..._ Of course. Scotland. That long train journey north that yet was relaxing in itself, unwinding knots of anxiety, going to sleep to the sound of the wheels on the track. Every mile took her away from that night, into the future. A future she had chosen.

Again she floated, half-way between sleeping and waking.

When the staff had come running from the stables, Marcus turned to speak to them. Their faces were lit by the glow of the fire, but they had showed no shock at his appearance and then, jolted, Claire realised that they were not seeing him, or not seeing what _she_ saw.

A hand touched her arm: Vanya’s slim hand, weighted with gleaming silver. But this woman’s hair spilled in black coils down a wine-red robe that lapped her ankles, showed the wink of silver toe-rings. She was beautiful beyond measure, ancient beyond Time. Even her voice was different as she spoke:  
‘Peace. Thou art seeing us as we truly are, Claire.’ One finger touched Claire’s mouth. ‘Yes, of course, thou didst taste his blood. Thou wilt see through glamour, now.’

Claire’s lips had burned since the dash of Vanimórë’s blood, but Vanya’s touch soothed It. Despite her changed appearance, there was a superbly reassuring quality in her, a sense she would stand unmoved against earthquake and hurricane, a rootedness that was overwhelmingly real and, with all that, a woman-to-woman connection that was as comforting as an embrace. Claire knew, as she had from their first meeting, that she could trust Vanya, whatever — whomever — she was.

‘Come.’ She slipped an arm through Claire’s. ‘The cottage. And a drop of whiskey would not go amiss, I think. Now...ah. Luc.’

Claire turned to see Luc walking toward her, still holding his bow. There was an expression in his face that carried more weight even than the burning building. He, too, had seen something. Done something. What?

Vanya shepherded them down the lane and into the cottage. Claire saw Luc pause, look down at the earth. It was torn and ripped as if the ground had opened and settled again. She though of the earthquake, if that was what it had been. Luc’s lips firmed; he stepped over it and walked on.

In the cottage, Vanya motioned for them to sit down and poured them drinks. Then she sat before them, waited until they had taken their first sips, and began to speak.  
‘There are two stories; more than two...an infinite number. All are similar, none identical and here,’ she placed her hands palm-to-palm, ‘two of them have come together.’

It ought to be an autumn night, Claire thought, with a fire burning, the wind moaning at the windows and walls; that was the time for tales. Vanya’s voice changed, took on a different cadence and accent.  
‘You know the story,’ she said. ‘It is part of your blood, the marrow of your bones; it runs in the roots of your hair. It is within you. When you wake at night it is in the pulse of blood in your ears. It is part of your DNA. You _know_ it.’

Yes, Claire knew it now.

There had been the long train journey, the _rattle-and-trap_ click of the carriages over the rails that lulled her to sleep; the rock of the train through the night was like a song on the borders of her consciousness. It took her back to childhood, and her mother murmuring poems and songs before sleep, hearing the night trains a few miles away, gathering speed from the station, slipping off into the dark.

There were four of them on that overnight journey; five, including Robin who travelled, imperturbable as a king, in the livestock carriage. Vanya, Luc, Claire and the one who had been introduced to her as Eden Dale, but whose true name was Edenel. He had stayed with Robin through the night.

The memory of Edenel’s glass-white eyes jerked Claire more fully awake. A thought flashed through her mind: It was as if he had stood before an atomic blast that had taken all colour from his eyes and glazed his beauty to enamel; yet those eyes were not those of a blind man. They were flecked with glints of light like the sun on snow, and held something older and deeper than grief. They had looked on something impossible, something that one should not look upon. With what Vanya had called the ‘glamour’ discarded, he burned with some kind of internal radiance; he was taller, his movements filled with a grace and power that were both strange and marvellous to behold. And yet the unearthly creature (Elf...and how odd and how familiar that sounded in her mind) was polite, even warm toward her, as if greeting an old friend long parted from.

And then there were the others. She knew, now, what and who they were.

Claire stretched her relaxed limbs and rose, crossed to the window. The view, when the curtains were drawn back, slapped her fully awake. The colours were as intense as fresh paint: the blue of the loch, the giant, crumpled mountains, the sweep of the sky. She would have seen it thus anyhow, but since that night, her sight was deeper, had sharpened. It did not cause her discomfort, yet it still startled her. It was a side-effect, Vanya said, of Vanimórë’s blood.

Vanimórë — she had not seen him since that night, when he walked with Marcus back toward the burning house. As they did so she swore that something dropped from the sky like a living spark — or perhaps it was only a falling ember, but whatever it was, whatever it touched (all that old worm-riddled wood) there was another explosion that slapped the night.

Duirinish Hall was nothing like the Clouds; it was an attractive Highland manor house with two playful little turrets and high, whitewashed walls commanding a stupendous view over Loch Carron and the ancient mountains that plunged into it. Yet for all the dramatic scenery, there was a kindness about this place, perhaps the climate, warmed by the sweep of the Gulf Stream that allowed palm trees to grow; or the gentle sway of the seaweed garlanded waters against the shore, the gardens that were profligate with flowers. Then, there were the Scottish bluebells, coming too their peak now, later here than in the south, that looked like patches of sky with their cool, water-blue scent.

Mrs Campbell was bustling about the kitchen and turned to smile at Claire. She was a tall, large-boned woman in her sixties who had been companion, cook and, in latter years, carer, to Monica St. Cloud’s aunt, Catherine Fayne and who had been allowed to stay on at Duirinish as caretaker by the kindly Monica after Lady’s Fayne’s death. She had seemed delighted to welcome the strange party, as if she genuinely liked having people to cook for and look after. Last night she had tucked Claire into bed with hot milk and whiskey.

Claire had immediately liked the house. Large though it was, every room felt welcoming, like a grandmother sitting in her favourite chair, her old-fashioned perfume wrapping one like a woollen blanket. Mrs Campbell added to this comfortable feeling. Now, she immediately offered tea, which Claire accepted and took with her out into the calm, warm morning.

‘I’m making breakfast, lass,’ she called. ‘About half an hour!’

The stables was rather a grandiose name for the three loose-boxes, the shed for the hay and fodder, but they were clean and well-kept. The eccentric and long-widowed Lady Fayne had apparently ridden horses well into her eighties. Not far from the stables was a neat little bungalow, where Mrs Campbell lived.

Robin’s great head emerged over the half-door as Claire got hay and filled the water bucket. The journey did not seem to have bothered him at all, she thought, as she briskly mucked-out and took a dandy-brush to his sleek coat. She hoped to find out later where she could ride him. Leaving him munching hay, she washed her hands at the tap in the yard, and wandered into the gardens; they were mature,lovingly tended, sloping downward through towering Scots pine, banks of rhododendrons, beds of flowers. Bluebells massed under the trees like shy maidens. In a clear pond, koi carp flicked and drifted, gold, black, orange, white.

Claire rounded the bole of a pine, fingers stroking the bark, and stood looking down to the sea. Only a few feet away, it curved into a little, pebbly cove, the water serene as a sigh. Beyond, the loch glimmered sapphire under those immense and frowning hills.

A seagull floated idly on a raft of drifting weed; she saw, as she came to the edge of the water, how clear it was, all-but motionless save for the steady, eternal breathing of the ocean that reached here only as the gentlest of movements. In autumn and winter, she thought, the sea would roar, surf pounding; the mountains would be buried in cloud to their flanks, and the wind would rage through the tall pines but now, in the stillness, the scene was as calm as a painting on glass, and yet she thought if she reached out a hand and touched it might shatter, fall away, to show something else, something long lost.

In her mind, all the information was still settling into place, as if Vanya’s tale were the old game of Tetris. Because Vanya’s explanations only lead into deeper, thornier thickets. _Known in the blood, felt in the bones._  
Through that night, the day after in the train as it slipped northward, she had unravelled the mysteries to Claire and Luc. She answered all their questions. And Claire could not disbelieve, but she needed time. Her world had been shifted; at times she felt disoriented, rootless, a stranger to herself. But she had chosen it.

‘Or I can make thee forget,’ Vanya had said as grey dawn pressed at the cottage windows. ‘Thou wilt know there was a fire, nothing else, and will go on and live thy lives as if nothing had ever been any different.’

Claire started to say something, then stopped, frowning. Luc drew a breath.  
‘Why...would you offer this?’ he asked.

‘Because I cannot promise thee there will be no danger, no trauma, no suffering, Luc,’ Vanya said gently. ‘None of us can promise that. This goes back so far, and with so many threads interwoven, to an older world, to another universe lost in fire, and to one even more ancient destroyed by the will of its creator. And that is thy legacy, Claire, Luc: Power, war, passion. The legacy of gods.’

Claire looked down at her hands, strong, slim, capable, and tried to fit them, fit _herself_ into Vanya’s language. She wanted to laugh, but it choked in her throat.  
‘That doesn't sounds anything like me.’

Vanya’s smile was shadowy. ‘And yet, thou hast dreamed. The both of thee have dreamed. The dreams of gods.’

Claire turned her head to see the village, painted houses arm-in-arm around the beach, colourful boats, some canted on the sand others, in deeper water, floating calmly at anchor. She saw no-one but one man, standing looking out to sea.

For one heartbeat she saw what he wanted others to see, and that was astonishing enough; the next moment, she saw him as he _was_ , and that took the breath. Everything around him faded, became mere background. He did not belong in this world but in that other, the one behind the glass. Although his tunic and breeches were simple, they might have been ermine and jewelled brocade. Three thick braids held the massy hair back from his face. It fell almost to his knees, glossy as freshly chipped obsidian.

Of course. Of all of them, she felt she should have known him, but after that night, it was as if the fire — or the blood — had unlocked a hidden room in her awareness. Vanya had said, _‘It was better, perhaps, that thou wert not aware. There are other things in the world, Claire, and not all mean thee well.‘_

Pebbles scraped under her boots. Maglor turned quickly with a warrior’s alertness. In the sculpted architecture of his face, silver eyes burned. It was not, and without the veil of glamour, never could be the face of a human.  
Then the danger was leashed, the threat faded, but not the brilliance. His mouth softened into a faint smile.  
‘Claire,’ he said in a voice that resonated through her bones, through the air. ‘How art thou?’

She was thankful he did not step softly, that he accepted her, accepted that she _knew_ , that she did not have to struggle through explanations. But she did not know how to truthfully answer. She made an encompassing shrug, returned the smile.  
‘I’m not sure. But thank you. I slept well.’ She could not quite bring herself to say his name.

‘Good.’ He gestured. ‘I saw a little cafe just opening. Shall we have some tea?’

The tea was strong and sweet, served in big china cups. The warmth seeped through Claire’s hands, slipped comfortingly down her throat. It tethered her as the anchors tethered the boats. They sat outside, wooden seats on uneven stones, a reserved Scottish nod to the frothing pavement cafes of warmer climates.

She wondered, glancing at Maglor, if she could train herself to see him as before, and instantly realised she did not want to. This was how he was; he should not have to hide himself. A bubble of something too vast, too astonishing to be excitement swelled under her breast. She wanted to grab the mild old man who had brought their tea and say, ‘See, look! He’s an Elf! Elves are real. Middle-earth is true! And there are gods and powers; _nothing_ is as you thought it was.’ She jerked in her seat with the force of the impulse before she caught it, realising the impossibility of ever telling anyone. Maglor’s world was gone, or so hidden that it would never touch the lives of humankind save rarely, as in her case and Luc’s.

A flash of anger at the necessity of silence stiffened her, and for Maglor — any, all of them; for they, too must be secret, be concealed. They could never reveal their true selves, not here. The majority of people lived behind a veil; it was more comfortable, Because when that veil was ripped away — and for most, perhaps that never happened save on the very borders of death — there was nothing between you and the truth. You were left exposed to the universe.

The thought shook her; a little tea spilled.

‘What is it?’ Maglor asked.

‘It’s just that....it’s all true then.’ she said, inadequate words in the wake of her thoughts.

‘Ah,’ he returned, the most completely understanding in his eyes, and then, as if drawing the magnitude of it back to a more earthly level: ‘Most of the facts are true. The events, the reasons behind them were painted as rather too black and white.’

‘I read the books, years ago,’ she murmured. ‘And then, well...work. So what...what now, then?’

‘According to Vanimórë,’ he looked down at his cup. ‘I must find the Silmaril I cast in the ocean long ago.’ The fire returned to his eyes and there was so much longing, so much grief in them it caught Claire by the throat.

‘You never—’ She tried to swallow.

‘The tale that I wandered beside the shores does have some truth.’ His eyes turned toward the placid loch. ‘I was mad with rage and grief, truly so for a while, but it was not long before I realised how foolish I had been. I was throwing away more than the Silmaril: I was throwing away hope. I was throwing away love. They had all gone, and left me alone. And I could not _bear_ it.’

His face was pure and strong, impervious as carved marble, but the _pain_ underlying those words brought tears springing into Claire’s eyes. Without realising, she reached out a hand to him. It brought the otherworldly gaze back to her with a faint, troubled smile. He took her hand, held it on the table between them.  
‘And so I searched for it, but the world was changed by the War of Wrath, and later again, by the destruction of Númenor. Later again, there was what they call, tentatively, the _Younger Dryas impact hypothesis_. It is not a hypothesis; I was there. About twelve thousand years ago the fragments of a huge comet or asteroid struck this world and there are traces even now. Again, the seas, the lands were changed. And so.’ He spread the fingers of his free hand. ‘I had little hope of finding it, I know. And yet, I could not give up.’

She wondered why _now_ , after millennia and, as if he knew her thoughts, his fingers tightened and his eyes _burned._  
‘I do not know why now, but we already have one,’ he said. ‘I have seen it.’ And Claire saw that the Silmaril was more than an artefact, no matter how unique and powerful. Or it had never had been that alone.

A cat, pure white, stalked out of the cafe, padded toward Claire and sat, tail curling around its legs. China-blue eyes blinked in the sunlight. She reached to stroke its head while she marshalled her thoughts. Again, that explosion within her of unbelief, of awe.

‘It is here,’ Maglor said. ‘Would you see it?’

Claire lifted her eyes from the cat’s to eyes that seemed just as inhuman. She swallowed.  
‘Not yet.’ And, a little apologetically. ‘I’m still trying to accustom myself.’ She thought that to look on it might be like looking on the unveiled face of god. Too much, at the moment. But the time would come.

He nodded. ‘I understand. Then, shall we go back for breakfast? I believe Mrs. Campbell was going to cook.’

She smiled, realised that she was hungry, and came to her feet. There was a flash, a flurry of white, and the white cat held down a little brown bird. It must have snatched it from the air when it flew down for crumbs.  
Liking cats though she did, she stamped her foot, heart beating hard. The cat, pinning the bird under its paws, looked up, serene as milk then, almost as if shrugging, sat back. The bird struggled, shivered its feathers, hopped and then flew off in a whir. The cat blinked, sauntered away. Claire stared after it.

‘It is its nature, Claire,’ Maglor said gently and held out a hand.

‘I know,’ she said.

OooOooO

It would do. It would more than do. Marion was self-critical to an intense degree, but he could not fault this.

It was unnumbered years since Dol Guldur when the whisper of power in the south of the Great Wood had gone forth and taken the name ‘Necromancer’. Hs early experiments had resulted in the mindless, ravenous ghouls that stalked the forest.

He steepled his fingers, regarded his creation — or recreation — for a long moment, then opened a leather case. A dagger nestled within, thin, curved, cruel; its edge would cut a silk thread. It was ancient, one of the first things he had ever found from his old life. Once, it had lain in a temple far to the East where he had performed blood-sacrifice.

He walked to the long table where the body lay, chest rising and falling in peaceful unconsciousness. Even the scar where the bullet had entered, and where Vanimórë had removed the heart to prevent the very thing Sauron had just done, was gone. The flesh was white and grainless as a newborn child’s.

Again, he considered. He would not have essayed this before, but now the other had surfaced: Marcus St. Cloud, the twin, hidden from his sight until very recently. And Marcus was impressive, Marion had to admit. But Marcus, he now knew, yearned for the twin-brother he had never known, and that was his weakness. Mairon meant to exploit it.

And this one...he had been hard on Leon, because it was his nature to be so. He had no time for those who professed weakness and need of his affection. He had none to give, but neither had Leon been as useless as Marion affected.

He paused, set down the dagger and rose, crossing to a shelf. The room was as brightly lit as an operating theatre but, save for the table, looked nothing like one. It was rich and dark as a temple; artefacts were mounted on wall or shelf: A great broken mask, a sword, a lesser _Palantir_ , scattered gems, carefully reconstructed jewellery: rings, collars, bracelets. Not all of these had been discovered by him; many had been passed on by a network of followers or simply interested parties that had grown through the decades, as had his collection.

The latest artefact was the most intriguing, delivered to his shop by post. It had contained no note, no hint of where it had come from. The postmark was London, which meant nothing. People could post a package from anywhere and those who wished to remain anonymous often did.

It was a mirror, or more accurately a piece of one, not much bigger than the palm of his hand. The sharp edges had been set into decorated silver like a woman’s powder compact from more luxurious times. As soon as he touched it, his flesh burned, a sleet of cold fire passing through his body. He had drawn back not from fear, but pure awe. Power burned off this shard. It was no Earth-made thing and, though he passed all his memories through his mind, searching, there was nothing that hinted of its existence. Not in this world.

The silver setting was 15th Century Italian, and as an antique alone would have been unique, but Marion had no real interest in antiques, be they never so valuable. It was a front, just as his shop was.

For days he examined it, and there was nothing save that constant throb of power. And then, one day, nothing. No reflection; a darkness that broke into storm of images. _Towers, gods, demons, wars, faces._ Faces. Some of them he knew, or could guess at, and his own was among them. A world that he remembered, a world long gone. A great Portal-Mirror shattered, spinning its fragments across multiple universes. Behind them, a man’s eyes blazed, diamond-white, then combusted into flame.

The implications startled even him. He had been correct; this was nothing made on this world, or even in this universe.

Now, he picked the mirror up as if compelled. Darkness billowed across the silver, then cleared to show him...himself. Marion looked back at Marion, the pale eyes backlit by ember fire, red as the molten deeps of the Sammath Naur.

Marion tilted his head a little; a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. He was not glamoured; a circlet of fire opals sat on his brow, the silk of his robes was crimson and black. White gold hair streamed past his shoulders. Behind him pillars soared and the light was not of this world. The long-lashed eyes blinked, catlike, and he spoke.  
He said, ‘I have been watching thee.’

‘Have you?’ Mairon returned.

‘And what you purpose —‘ An elegant shrug. ‘I think you need my help.’

‘Where do you speak from?’ Although he thought he knew.

‘From the Outside.’ The eyes widened as if the answer was obvious. ‘From the Timeless Halls; the only thing that survived after the destruction of this universe. But after, other universes were born, out of sacred blood and pain and memory, and that is where _you_ dwell.’

‘And this means what to me?’ Mairon responded dryly although his mind flashed into speculation. Of course all gods knew there was more than the universe they were born into. The Timeless Halls were indeed ‘outside’ but once the powers had entered into Eä, they became fixed within it. Or, at least Mairon had never heard of any Valar or Maia passing beyond. ‘So the universe was destroyed? And you survived?’ He almost laughed. Well, one thing he was, was a survivor. He had needed to be.

‘Yes, I survived,’ the other Mairon agreed. ‘Perhaps it was simply chance and perhaps...not. But you are indeed the offspring of a thought, a memory of me. And I can tell thee now that it will take more than your own blood to make your pretty little tool there as useful as you would have him. You have met _my_ son.’

‘I have, yes. I have known of him for a long time. But one thing I do not know: How did you succeed?’

Mairon laughed, showing his very white teeth. ‘It was a long project, and a rewarding one. I walked on the very edge of the blade. He was the blade. My son might have broken, or he might have even challenged me. As it was, he is my finest creation. Do you know what he is? He _forced_ himself into power, into godhood, and into yet greater power. But more lies behind that.’ He sliced a beringed hand through the air. ‘It is like an alchemical recipe. But _your_ son, or the one currently in your possession, lacked one vital ingredient: self-sufficiency. Give him immortality and you will simply get a son exactly the same, but one who will live forever, unless you decide to be rid of him.’

It was what had concerned him, he admitted. Sharply, he said, ‘What do you suggest?’

‘This.’ The mirror rippled like water, and Mairon’s hand emerged, solid, slender, rings gleaming with gems that could never be found on earth. ‘My blood.’

‘Can you fully enter? I assume you must have done so.’

Mairon’s hand lay upon the table. ‘Of course. The mirror fragments. They were scattered across the multiverse and can be found anywhere, even here, in the Timeless Halls. I found one. I have had a great deal of time, if one can call it time, to explore this place.’

More lay beyond that, than mere words.

‘So, are you going to tell me what happened?’ Mairon prompted the Mairon beyond.

‘Perhaps at some point. But not now. I am about to have company.’ Amusement gleamed, cold and ironic in those inhuman eyes.

‘Then, what does _he_ want?’

‘My son? To throw down the Valar, or the majority of them, and return the dead and doomed,’ Mairon said simply, smiling. ‘To make them gods.’

‘He can _do_ that?’ Then what in the Hells _was_ he?

‘Yes. He can. He did. He will. You can do nothing about it but decide how to survive. But come.’ The fine fingers curled impatiently.

Mairon picked up a surgeon’s scalpel, poised it over the hand, but first he touched it. Fascinating to feel the solid flesh and sinew of his earlier self, warm, pulsing with life, but on the Outside. He shook off questions and ancient regret and cut. Warm blood like opalescent rubies pooled in his palm. The hand never flinched or moved, but, after a moment, withdrew through the glass. Looking in it, Mairon saw nothing now but his own reflection. He crossed to the table, sliced the blade across his own skin. The two bloods mingled. Canting his hand, he let the warm liquid run through Leon’s lips. After a moment, he stood back, folded his arms. The sudden convulsion, the agonised scream did not trouble him. He glanced over at where the mirror rested, frowning. Time, as they said, would tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Banner by the lovely Mithrial. Thank you so very much.  
>   
> https://mithrial.dreamwidth.org/  
>   
> The village in Scotland is based on the beautiful Plockton.  
>   
> [](https://postimages.org/)  
>   
> Image from The Times.


	2. ~ Smokescreen ~

  
  
~ Smokescreen ~  
  
  
  
~ ‘I want thee to return to the Timeless Halls,’ Vanimórë had told Coldagnir. ‘Observe Sauron, speak to him. See what, if anything, he reveals, and let me know. And if Eru has made an appearance.’ His mouth curled in a grimace that was something like pain. ‘That too, I would know. Then return to the house in Scotland.’  
He had lead them away from the house, the fire. The sky glowed red behind them.  
‘Edenel, wilt thou watch Claire and Luc? In this world thou art long dead, but Claire’s heritage is the same. My sister believed thou shouldst be the one to reveal it.’  
  
And so Coldagnir had gone, vanishing though the cracks in the world to the Outside, and Edenel remained, travelling to Scotland on the train. After the Valar were confronted and the dead rehoused, he must leave. It would be too unsettling to see his other self, the one born in this world, the one, like many others, who had not survived. And, too, it would be heartbreaking to see those he loved alive knowing he could not remain. Coldagnir would leave also, and Vanimórë— and what then? Back to the Timeless Halls, to his people, but without the others and without the answers. Only the dreams.  
  
_’Not just the dreams, my dear.’_ Vanimórë had said. _’I know this. We will — all of us — return to the very roots. We have to. Nothing is ended. Nothing is forgotten._  
  
Edenel thought on those words as he sat on a rock weathered to smoothness by the Ages, furred by lichen, and watched Claire on Rob Roi in the distance as horse and rider emerged from a group of trees. Ellie Campbell had been a helpful font of local knowledge, telling Claire where she might ride the stallion. There was a path behind the stables that wound inland, and looped back toward the house, a good two miles, and that was only one of the tracks Claire might use. This would do for now, she said, just to stretch Robin’s legs. And she agreed (because they did not want to appear to be spying on her) that they should follow or watch over her from a distance, as with Luc.  
  
After breakfast, they had gathered in the quiet, book-lined study to talk. An old clock ticked peacefully and the air smelled of ancient paper and leather, fading pot-pourri.  
  
‘How long has Sauron been here?’ Luc asked and Claire heard in his voice the same wariness that was in her own mind, approaching even the names as delicately as a cat treading over ice.  
  
‘I became aware of him toward the end of 1950,’ Vanya said from the wing-backed chair where she sat like a queen.  
  
‘One thing you didn’t tell us,’ Claire interpolated. ‘Was _how_ he escaped. If he was in the Void—‘  
  
‘He was. But he had a connection on Earth. The one thing Melkor never had: blood-kin. No, not Vanimórë, or not his son from this universe, who was also condemned to the Void, but the one who created it: my brother. And,’ Vanya admitted. ‘Myself. I exist in all worlds. Vanimórë came to this world not long after the Second World War, and his presence was such that Sauron, even in the Void could, as you say, lock onto it, and in time, escape from the Void to this world. As I say, I was aware of him, just as I was aware of my brother. Where one is, the other will be, inevitably. He was quiet, at first, Sauron, and cautious, testing himself, his powers, and then began to work in secret. He has immense influence. And then there is Vanimórë, Lucien Steele, the reclusive multi-billionaire, who also has enormous influence. Sauron has been searching for him for decades but Vanimórë is not often here.’ She tilted a hand back and forth. ‘He comes and goes. It is not easy for him to live upon these worlds.’  
  
‘Why does Vanimórë conceal himself from Sauron?’ Tindómion asked, a bright, focussed storm gathering behind his deadly eyes. ‘If his power is greater? Indeed, if they are not allied, why does he not destroy him?’  
  
‘His power is not greater, not here,’ Edenel told him. ‘What he truly is, could not enter any physical world without destroying it. He says it is like poking one’s finger through a sheet of paper. The finger is the part of him that can come through. The greater part remains behind. He has the same power here that he had before his apotheosis, when he was Sauron’s son in the Middle-earth that is gone. And I think a part of him prefers that; in those days at least he knew who he was. Now...’  
  
Tindómion nodded sombrely. ‘He had some power, the Vanimórë whom Glorfindel fought in Barad-dûr. We felt it, but he did not use it. He simply fought as a warrior. It was a pity he chose the wrong side.’ The silver gaze turned to Marcus, who stared back, though the colour rose to his cheeks.  
‘I have denied him,’ he said through clenched white teeth. ‘And I will again.’  
  
‘Vanimórë would not have given him his blood had he believed him to be the same person.’ There was tartness in Vanya’s voice, an edge of warning. ‘And thou doth not believe him to be the same, either,’ she reminded Maglor.  
  
‘I do not,’ Maglor acknowledged. And, to Marcus. ‘Thou art more like _him_ , now. Vanimórë, our Vanimórë I suppose I should call him.’ ( _Ah, Maglor,_ Edenel thought. _Thou knowest not what was between thee in the old world._ )  
  
Marcus shifted. ‘I remember everything now, but I remember _his_ life too. I saw some of it in dreams, but now I know _all_. When I was dying, and tasted his blood, it was like an instant download; it must have taken less than a second.’  
  
‘How different was it?’ Tindómion asked.  
  
‘Some of it, very different.’ Marcus glanced at Vanya who nodded endorsement.  
‘In our world,’ she said. ‘Vanimórë killed me.’  
  
‘The room went very still. Luc stared; Claire’s lips parted.  
  
‘We were yet young,’ Vanya continued softly. ‘But we grew more quickly than Elves. When we were taken from Tol-in-Gaurhoth to Angband, Vanimórë was placed in the fighting pits against Great orcs, Fell-wolves and Balrogs.’ Edenel nodded infinitesimally to himself. Sauron had used the same methods to train Melkor’s White Slayers in Utumno. They were effective. One learned or one died.  
‘Sauron had not anticipated a twin.’ (Vanya continued) ‘I was of no use.’ Her mouth curved wryly. ‘Except as something Melkor might use. Vanimórë did his best to protect me, to keep me from the eyes of Melkor, of Sauron, but he was little more than a boy himself.’ Her face warmed in memory. ‘And, when the time was ripe, when _I_ was ripe, Sauron arrayed me as fine as a princess. He would have given me to Sauron to use until he killed me, I suppose. It mattered naught to him; Vanimórë was his project. I was a sweetmeat to be tossed to his master. Vanimórë knew he could not save me, so he killed me — or thought he did.’ She raised a hand, palm flat, forestalling the reaction.  
‘He snapped my neck. It was instant, painless and done with love. Vanimórë has never, will never, forget it or forgive himself. But Melkor bound my soul to my body and sent me out to wander the Earth. I do not remember much of those years; they were brutal and bleak at times, and yet I also found some kindness. But I sought for my brother; the only one I had loved. I remembered his face and I searched for it. And one day, after thousands of years had passed, I found him. In that world, thou wert there, Maglor.’  
  
‘Yes?’ He tilted his head as if to bring something into focus, or to catch a strain of distant, familiar music. *  
  
‘Thou didst take pity on a crazed old woman and played to her. She was attacked, stoned as a witch, and thou wert hurt too, trying to prevent it though thou didst kill many. Then Vanimórë came and—‘ she shrugged. ‘He unleashed his powers. The mob burned. But I was already dying when he found me. I asked him to send me on my way. He knew me then, and again, he killed me with mercy. My spirit roamed, went, in the end, to Valinor. Long after, Vanimórë set me free to become what I am now.’  
  
Again, silence fell like a cloud. Claire looked at the floor.  
  
‘Thou didst not have a twin, in this world, Marcus.’ Vanya said to him. ‘Perhaps that is why thou didst turn to Sauron. Vanimórë loved me, and that love saved him. He fought, always, even when he could not win, because he had loved unselfishly. He knew that there was more than power, more than hate and violence, more than Melkor’s self-destructive nihilism, more than Sauron’s pitilessness and ice-cold will to rule, although,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘He has that, too. Of course he wanted Sauron to love him. Do we not all wish for love from our parents?’ Maglor’s eyes blazed; his hand went out to Tindómion in a quick, almost convulsive movement and his son gripped it.  
‘And what else did he have? He did not move among Mortals. Any relationships he had were bound to be fleeting. But he did create the _Khadakhir_. They were those he loved, became close to. Young warriors, usually, who he trained from boyhood and who loved him in return. They accepted his blood to become immortal, his companions and guards. Some of them were with him for hundreds of years when Sauron was reduced in power but, when he rose again, he sent them far away and Vanimórë did not see them again until after the War of the Ring. He knew Sauron would take everything from him, so that Vanimórë could only look to _him._. He refused to do that but, to return to thy question, Tindómion: He will not destroy his father. Their relationship is...complex.’  
  
‘So many people thought I should hate thee. Tindómion said to Maglor. ‘And I even struggled with it myself. But my father,’ to Vanya, ‘is not Sauron.’  
  
‘Inarguably! And still, Vanimórë will not unmake him. Powers, Vala, Maia, cannot be destroyed save by my brother or Eru. Vanimórë will not destroy Sauron.’ She rose. ‘He will, however, always fight him, and he will not allow him to harm those he cares for. Sauron, here, has many followers, which is why it behooves us to be cautious.’ She turned to Claire. ‘Thou wilt need to exercise Robin and Luc, thou canst not be cooped up here. But we will need to watch over thee. We do not want thee to feel as if we are spying on thee, caging thee, but it is a precaution we need to take. If Sauron were to capture one of thee, he would hold Vanimórë in the palm of his hand. Wilt thou agree, the both of thee, to be watchful, and to be watched? We will not invade thy privacy, of course.’  
  
‘I agree,’ Luc said quietly, and Claire nodded soberly.  
‘What does he look like?’ she asked. ‘I mean, can he _change_ what he looks like?’  
  
‘He can shapeshift,’ Edenel said. ‘But he seems always to favour the same human appearance. Very pale hair, mauve or lavender eyes. He takes the name Arthur May, an antique dealer. A highly respected one. His shop is in Cornwall. Vanimórë prefers to know where he is, rather than causing him to go into hiding. His followers...we do not know. Leon slipped past the screeners, and none of us knew who or what he was.’ He did not look at Vanya. Marcus, who had been gazing out of the window turned his head; a fleeting expression crossed his face. Edenel knew it, had felt it, the pain of being ripped from one’s other half. Marcus had not know his twin brother and yet Leon was a part of him, part of a greater whole. In the immeasurable past, they had been one.  
  
Claire said reluctantly. ‘I don’t like suggesting this, but if we have to be so cautious, what about Mrs. Campbell?’  
  
‘As far as I can determine, Ellie Campbell is exactly what she seems, but that is part of the larger problem, Claire,’ Vanya said gently. ‘Sauron cannot hide them, but Eru can. Just as he can hide himself from Vanimórë.;  
  
‘But...why would he?’ Luc demanded.  
  
‘It is impossible to know what Eru wants,’ Edenel said, a whit bitterly. ‘But we can guess at least. He might hide even Sauron’s servants if it benefitted him.’  
  
‘Did he hide Leon?’ Claire asked and, rather diffidently, to Marcus. ‘When I met him at Christmas I sensed nothing wrong in him.’ Marcus lifted wide shoulders as if to ward off a shiver.  
  
‘I hid him,’ Vanya said with a thin echo of regret in her voice. ‘No, he was not evil, Claire. He was a young man, a trained killer, but not evil. He was a neglected child. Oh, the St. Cloud’s were not cruel, but they had no time for children. When he met Sauron, when he knew who he was, it was but natural to hope for some paternal love — and more. I hoped that, in the end, he might have turned to Vanimórë.’  
  
‘Yes,’ Claire murmured. ‘They loved their horses, but a child would have got in the way. In fact Monica did say that to me once. I’m sorry,’ she said to Marcus and Vanya both.  
  
‘I was the lucky one,’ Marcus said with a twisted smile.  
  
But even if Ellie Campbell is as sound as a bell,’ Vanya said returning the smile with gentleness. ‘She lives in the bungalow, so she will not always be around, but let us be wary of what we say in her presence...or anyone’s. A village can act as an early-warning system but this one has as many holiday cottages as residents.’ She crossed to an antique table. ‘Here, Claire. Ellie was kind enough to trace out some bridle paths. There are many around here, some long, some short.’ They sat together, heads inclined, rose-gold and black and Edenel crossed to Luc. ‘The same applies to thee, Luc, if thou wouldst like to walk or practice archery...’  
  
‘I do enjoy hiking. As for archery.’ Luc’s expression went hard. ‘Do you know...’ He lowered his voice. ‘I killed someone, that night.’  
  
‘I know,’ Edenel said equally soft. ‘And there was no choice.’  
  
The dark head shook. ‘And yet...it’s not easy to come to terms with. But it was so easy then.’ His eyes searched Edenel’s. ‘Do you understand?’  
  
‘I do.’ Edenel laid his fingers, very lightly, on Luc’s arm. ‘And I know it was different for me, for those who awoke with me. We had to hunt and also husband and grow; it was not like this world, where one buys meat from a store. But still, I never killed what thou wouldst call another human being, for a long time. And, as with thou, it was necessary, a matter of survival. It does take time to accustom oneself.’  
  
‘I don’t regret it.’  
  
‘Why shouldst thou?’ Easily. ‘He meant to kill _thee_. Carnán knew he was evil, and took his body deep under the earth. She would have dealt with him hadn’t thou not.’  
  
Luc drew in and released a long breath. ‘Will there be more?’  
  
Edenel hesitated. ‘There may be,’ he said truthfully.  
  
‘As long as I know.’ Then the white teeth gleamed. ‘So, about this hike...’  
  
  
  
  
  
Luc sat beside him, the sun glossing his tan skin as they watched Claire and Rob Roi emerge from the trees. The track ran, through rock and heather, down toward the sea and Claire let the stallion lengthen his stride until he was flying, eating up the ground, effortless, beautiful.  
  
‘Is he an Elven horse?’ Luc asked curiously. ‘Or... I mean, descended from one?’  
  
Not far away Marcus stood, his hair, which Edenel could now see only as that long billow of black, tossed like Rob Roi’s mane as he watched. The thunder of hooves swelled as the stallion passed below them.  
‘Perhaps,’ Edenel said. ‘That, or a memory.’  
  
‘Edenel.’ Luc pronounced the name tentatively. Edenel turned his head to the dark-eyed, resolute stare.  
‘Yes?’  
  
‘When Maglor finds the Silmaril...’ He paused, a frown drawing his brows down. ‘You will all leave here, and go to Valinor?’  
  
‘Coldagnir and myself, only briefly,’ Edenel said. ‘It is not our world, Luc.’  
  
‘Very well. But there will be a way to go, a....what did Tolkien call it? The Straight Road?’  
  
‘Ah, yes, there will be a way.’  
  
‘I want to come. There is nothing for me here.’  
  
‘Thou hast the right to come,’ Edenel answered slowly. ‘It is in thy blood, but art thou sure?’  
  
‘There is little for me here. Oh, yes, I could make a life here, but I am almost severed from my family. A few years ago, when I met Marcus, I hoped we might be friends, but I was younger then, and not ready to completely walk away from all I had known. It’s not easy.’  
  
‘To leave thy blood kin? No,’ Edenel agreed. ‘It is not.’  
  
‘But the separation is all-but complete now.’ Luc turned his eyes inland to the mountains. ‘They’ll never accept that I’m gay and, if I remain here, all my life, and even on my death-bed, I will be wondering what else there is, the call of my blood.’  
  
Edenel settled a hand on Luc’s shoulder. ‘There is time yet, to consider all the implications but yes, thou canst make that journey, if thou wilt.’  
  
A smile, small and shadowy, moved Luc’s mouth. ‘Thank you.’ Then their attention, both at once, turned to the horse and rider, now reaching the end of the track. What, Edenel wondered, would Claire do, at the end? Blood of the Elves, Culina’s blood and his own, blood of the goddess of the autumn moon, that first-universe that they could only reach in dreams.  
Andúnië.  
  
_What wilt thou do Claire_? And then. _What will_ we _do_?  
  
  
  
It is not ended. _Nothing is ended._  
_Nothing is forgotten._  
  
Vanimórë’s words....Or Eru’s?  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

~A rainstorm was breaking over London as Vanimórë ran down the steps of the building, and strode toward his car. Umbrellas sprouted on the path ahead of him, puddles formed. The Apollyon Enterprises board meeting was over and he meant to call Howard from the car. Howard had not, surprisingly, been in touch, but he was a busy man after all. Vanimórë kept him busy.

As he pressed the key fob and heard the beep of the locks disengaging, he saw a woman walking purposefully toward him. Low heels clipped on the wet pavement; a long mackintosh flapped around her ankles. He paused; he had seen her before, only once, and that briefly, but knew where she was from.

She stopped before him, a short, slim woman with acute blue eyes in a bony face. No-nonsense fair hair was cropped close to her head in a pixie style that might have fooled the uninitiated into thinking her cute, which would be a mistake. She carried a laptop case, and a faint air of pugnacity hardened the line of her firm jaw.

‘Mr. Steele,’ she said. ‘Charlie Audley. We have to talk.’ Her voice was right out of the top-drawer, loaded with privilege like thick-whipped cream.

He gestured to the passenger door. She opened it, slipped inside.

‘Clarissa Audley, Lady Cathcart,’ he said. ‘MI5. How can I help you?’

She turned in her seat. ‘Mr. Steele.’ He saw her swallow. ‘It’s Howard. He’s dead.’

Vanimórë sat back. ‘The devil he is,’ he said slowly.

‘This morning,’ she elaborated. ‘A heart attack.’

He thought of Howard’s _penchant_ for good food and wine, his rather sedentary lifestyle, the stress Vanimórë undoubtedly caused him, and frowned. He had liked Howard, his competency, their banter. A good man.

‘His cleaner found him in his bedroom.’

‘Autopsy?’ Vanimórë asked. ‘We need to be absolutely certain it was natural.’

‘In hand,’ she said curtly. ‘As you know, he was divorced, but his ex-wife has been notified, and his daughter. He was close to her. Mr. Steele.’ She drew a breath. ‘No-one one fucking wants his job, no-one _wants_ to deal with you. So — I’m being transferred from MI5. Her mouth thinned. She stared straight ahead.

‘I did wonder if you were interested,’ he said dulcetly. He remembered Howard speaking of her, saying he would like her to come over to the department.

‘I can do the job,’ she snapped. ‘But the Director General and the Chief want a meeting with you before anything is finalised. Basically, you have to sign me off.’

‘I see.’

‘This is going to be strictly an internal affair between MI5 and 6,’ she told him. ‘We know you don’t meet with government ministers.’

‘Governments come and go,’ he said briefly. The quiet secretaries who worked from their offices in Whitehall were ultimately those who had the greater power, and carried more secrets. He had been dealing with the same woman there for over twenty years. Mary Kane was as quiet, competent, and close as an oyster. ‘When is the meeting?’

‘Whenever you call it,’ she said dryly.

‘Very well.’ He started the car. ‘Shall we have lunch? I booked a table at Marcus’ for Howard, but perhaps you would care to join me? He did tell me about you, but I would rather hear about why you want the job from your own mouth.’

Clarissa, Lady Cathcart, was the youngest child of the Earl of Thame. Of her three older brothers, one had succeeded to the title and lived in a few rooms of the enormous Torrington Hall in Surrey, the rest being open to the public. Edward, a benign soul, spent most of his time in his market garden, and was often mistaken for one of the staff in his old sweaters and muddy boots. Charlie, many years younger than her brothers, was rather more ambitious. She had absolutely no desire to continue the centuries-long family tradition of marrying into another landed family. She knew how _that_ unfolded: hunting, shooting, and trying to heat an (inevitably) drafty mansion that swallowed money.  
She had gone to university and applied, almost on a whim, for MI6 because it sounded interesting. It was. She proved to be tenacious and brilliant and rapidly moved up from her very junior position. MI5 and 6 mingled when it came to Lucien Steele, whose influence was global.  


Charlie had been officially ‘introduced’ to the strange and secret department that dealt with Steele three years ago, at an inter-agency meeting. She had left the room not believing a word of what was said, but fascinated nonetheless. Two years ago she had glimpsed Steele leaving the building and experienced something of a shock. At that moment, she was prepared to give the stories around which Howard’s career revolved, some credence.

Because Steele was buying and because she knew how wealthy he was, Charlie ordered lunch without regard for the bill. Her family, although possessed of land and an ancient title, had not possessed much actual money and Charlie, in her girlhood, had gone around in fraying jeans for years on end.

Over the table, she took stock of the remarkable Lucien Steele, but it was like trying to bring something into focus that kept slipping away from one’s vision. Without appearing in the least bit effeminate, he was far too beautiful to be real. The superbly cut suit sat straight across those wide shoulders and his hands, though slender and white-skinned, bore callouses. There was a sense of power in him, like the engine of his Bentley, purring. She saw no sign that he was carrying a concealed weapon, and remembered Howard’s words that he did not need one to kill. Despite the so-civilised veneer in these so-civilised surroundings, there was something almost barbaric about him, his looks, the immensity of his presence.

‘How much do you know?’ he asked taking a sip of water.

She shrugged. ‘I won’t know everything unless I’m given the job, Mr. Steele. But you’ve crossed my radar a few times.’

‘I see.’ A smile flickered. ‘And so, tell me: Why should you get this job, Lady Cathcart?’

‘Charlie,’ she corrected automatically. There was a great deal of nepotism in the civil service, but she had climbed the ladder by her own merits and never used her title unless necessary. When it was, she bludgeoned people with it.

‘Charlie,’ he said. ‘Why? You are going to be see things or at least be exposed to situations and truths that most people are not aware even exist, and would struggle to believe in.’

‘Because it’s interesting,’ she responded. ‘Because I have a level head. Because I can bloody well handle it.’

‘Howard would not have wanted you for his team otherwise,’ he acknowledged.

‘And to be brutally honest, there isn’t anyone else,’ she said. ‘No-one who ticks all the boxes. You are a fucking _problem_ , Mr. Steele.’

His eyes danced. ‘No, am I really?’ Then the amusement faded.

‘There was someone else, not long ago who ticked all the boxes.’  
  
‘Leon St. Cloud.’ She cleared her throat. ‘That was...the department fucked up, Steele. He shouldn’t have got past the screen. Howard blamed himself and he was right to. And _now—_ ’  
  
Steele raised a hand. ‘He should not have got past _me_ , Charlie.’ His voice was flat.  
  
‘Well, he didn’t in the end, did he?’ She raised her brows.  
  
They fell silent as waiters cleared their table and set down filter coffee. Charlie lifted her cup.  
‘So, as I say, there’s no-one. There’s a girl in the department Howard had his eyes on, I know that, but she’s much too young and a bit of a loose canon, apparently. She’s a pagan, and has these...you know, strange fucking ideas.’ She waved a small hand.  
  
‘Really?’ Steele murmured. ‘It seems just the place for er...strange ideas.’  
  
‘Not if you have to run the bloody department,’ she rejoined tartly. ‘We have to deal with the _real_ world as well.’  
  
He laughed briefly. ‘Granted. Very well, Charlie. Shall we arrange the meeting?’  
  
She nodded, sat back. She thought of Howard’s exasperated fondness, his pride and awe of this man.  
_You cold-blooded bastard._  
  
His eyes, turning to her, caught a glint of violet in the restaurant’s lighting. She knew he wore dark contact lenses or tinted glasses to conceal their true colour.  
‘What did Howard do?’ he asked. ‘After returning to London?’  
  
She said, exasperatedly: ‘This is all in hand, Mr. Steele. His phone, his iPad, his computers, all being checked. Nothing’s coming up. I know it looks odd, especially after the morgue fatalities.’  
  
He went absolutely still. For no reason except she was the recipient of that unnerving dagger-point of attention, Charlie felt perspiration break on her brow.  
‘What morgue fatalities?’ And then she heard the power of his voice shiver the glassware though he did not raise his voice. ‘ _What morgue fatalities_?’  
  
‘Oh, my god,’ she said through a dry throat. ‘My god. Steele. Howard...didn’t _contact_ you?’ She hurried on at the look in his eyes. ‘There was a fire in the morgue where they were holding the two bodies from the Rochford Manor operation. It happened two days ago. For _fucks sake_!’ Without realising, she had got to her feet. ‘Some kind of electrical fault.’  
  
‘The bodies were still there?’ Steele shot the question.  
  
‘Yes. There was some kind of delay. They were going to the City of London crematorium today, apparently. I haven’t been given all the details yet.’  
  
Steele had removed his gaze from her face, was looking into the distance as if he could see beyond the walls. perhaps he could.  
‘No, Howard never contacted me,’ he said slowly, flatly.  
  
‘Fuck’s sake,’ Charlie almost wailed. ‘Steele—‘  
  
‘The bodies?’ he rapped.  
  
She gulped. ‘It was an intense fire —‘  
  
‘Do you know, Charlie, how difficult it is to burn a human body? I do.’ His eyes were cold as an unmarked grave, but red flame seemed to light their depths. ‘And one brought out of storage in the morgue? It would have to be an _incredibly_ intense fire to leave nothing at all.’  
  
‘They’re going through the remains,’ she snapped. ‘Of course there are remains. Three morgue attendants and the bodies.’  
  
For a moment she thought he was going to explode, and was not sure what would happen if he did. Pressure _pushed_ against her skin and her head pounded. She half-expected the glass to blow out of the windows. Then, as if he deliberately pulled his rage, throttled it, sealed it within himself, the threat passed.  
‘There will not be any bodies,’ he told her. ‘Not of Leon St. Cloud and Samael Bennett, at least.’  
  
‘You think that _Howard_...’  
  
His sleek black brows rose. ‘Yes, Charlie. And so do you. Where did he go on returning to London? Socially.’  
  
Charlie scrabbled for self-control.  
‘He went out for a couple of meals on his own. There’s nothing in that, nothing suspicious. Usual deliveries at his house. Post. Amazon. No visitors.’  
  
‘Very well. Where did he go to eat?’  
  
‘Trinity’s and the Smoking Goat. He took taxi’s each time, different private hire firms. Rosie’s and Hamilton’s, before you ask. Both bookings were for 8.30 p.m.’  
  
‘And they are being checked, I assume?’  
  
Charlie set her teeth. ‘They are.’  
  
‘Good.’ And Then with a charming smile that left her floundering. ‘Very well. I suppose we should arrange that meeting? And Charlie, say nothing of this. It is something I am going to have to deal with myself. I will bring you up to speed later, yes?’  
  
She swung her head back and forth. ‘The department—‘  
  
‘I _am_ the department,’ he said.  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

~ The meeting was cordial enough and, not unexpectedly, took all afternoon. Charlie had met two Prime Minister’s and more than one high-ranking royal, but Lucien Steele was on another plane entirely. He simply looked, and indeed behaved as if he ruled the world. Yet his arrogance was so internalised, so much a part of him, that it did not grate. Charlie was no shrinking flower and had the inbred confidence of the aristocracy. She permitted no-one to bully her.  
Lucien Steele did not bully; he was courteous, quietly spoken — at least so far. There was nothing in him of the sexist and Charlie could smell one of them a mile away. In fact he had what her formidable maternal grandmother would call ‘exquisite manners’. She could not place what she found so...alien about him until she remembered Howard’s words: _‘The world’s too small for him.’_

That was it. Yes.

‘That’s why he never stays very long. That’s why he had to make himself as rich as god. It gives him at least a taste of the freedom he’s used to. He has to have mansions, villas; he can’t live in small places.’

‘Well, who the fuck wants to?’ Charlie asked sharply, having imbued what her family, landowning Tories time out of mind, considered some fairly heretical socialist views in university.

‘I mean, I think he finds them claustrophobic,’ Howard had explained. ‘Like a reminder of something...unpleasant.’

‘Like prison?’

‘Something like that.’

Howard, Charlie thought, an internal protest of horror. Not Howard. He _couldn’t_ have been comprised.

Steele thought he had been. And she couldn’t think of a single reason why Howard would not have immediately contacted him about the morgue fire. Yes, something was going down in the Clouds in Norfolk, which shit-show was going to land in _her_ lap now, but surely...

She twisted her sweating hands together and fidgeted, longing for this meeting to be over, and watched Steele. No-one would guess anything was amiss. He dominated the other two men effortlessly, like a king, she thought, and no constitutional monarch, but one that was used to exercising absolute power. She’d never encountered a man so private, so completely locked in. No doubt when he killed or made love (although it was difficult to imagine him indulging in such a normal act) he would be exactly the same. The real person was deep, deep under the glamoured exterior, hidden behind the eyes.

After a moment, he rose, concluding the meeting. Charlie drew a silent sigh of relief. She knew she could do the job, though she had not expected to step into a dead man’s shoes, and one around whom doubts now clustered like uneasy ghosts.

‘Charlie,’ Steele said as the Chief and Director left the room. Dismissed, she thought, with a little, inner crow of glee. You’re dismissed, gentlemen!  
‘Perhaps we can continue this over dinner? Galvin’s at eight o clock?’

She rose. She knew well enough why he was inviting her to dinner at his hotel rather than meeting in her office, Howard’s old office. It, like the whole building, was under surveillance.

She snapped shut her laptop. ‘Certainly, Mr. Steele.’  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Refers to events in Dark Blood. 
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/17780/chapters/35870
> 
> Charlie Audley first appeared in Night of Blood, which I took down, but it is the same person. 
> 
> The pagan in the dept refers to Martha, who Narya_Flame has written about, brilliantly, in A Question of Perspective 
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/19834105


	3. ~ On the Other Side of A Dream ~

  
  
  


**~ On the Other Side of A Dream ~**

~ ‘So, Howard went to the morgue three times.’

After meeting Charlie for breakfast at the Hilton, Vanimórë drove them both out to Hyde Park, where they found a bench under the trees and sat down.

Charlie sipped coffee from a thermos cup. ‘The second time he was with another man, a Dr. Andrew Lamb, out of Johns Hopkins. I.D. all checked and correct. On those dates, Dr. Lamb was in Boston and is currently attending a seminar in Tel Aviv.’

‘Surveillance cameras?’

‘Nada, zip, zilch and sweet Fanny Adams,’ Charlie said morosely. ‘They picked up Howard and Lamb entering, but no clear image and after that the cameras just fuzzed out. That’s a problem with _you_ , as well, probably the reason there are no pictures of you online.’ She shot Vanimórë a sidelong glance.  
‘Anyhow, the night of the fatalities, Howard and Dr. Lamb came with a colleague, a Dr. Peter Collins. Again the ID checked out.’

‘The staff that died were on duty those times.’

‘They were, yes.’

Vanimórë said, ‘Mr Arthur May and his colleague left with the bodies, and then the fire started.’

‘Howard signed the bodies out, yes. We do have a number plate for the van May drove, we’re calling in CCTV footage of the route it took, but I’m not expecting much on that front. Oddly enough, the cameras seem to be equally fucking dodgy. Number plates trace to a rental firm.’

‘I am not surprised, and what is done is done.’ A couple of joggers passed. ‘I would like you to talk to Howard’s daughter.’

‘Kristi. She’s a photo-journalist for Nat.Geo. Currently, she’s on some scientific research vessel in the Arctic. We had a hell of a time getting hold of her, but she’s flying into London on the 24th for Howard’s funeral.’

‘I see.’

‘Well, I wish I fucking did,’ Charlie exploded. ‘Okay, yes, May turned Howard through his daughter. But what the _fuck_ does he want with the bodies, and please don’t tell me he’s some modern-day Frankenstein! And who was with him?’

‘Yes,’ Vanimórë murmured. ‘It would be interesting to know that. He has many followers, however, and may just have wanted some help moving the bodies. I do wonder, though, why he would take Samael Bennett’s corpse.’

He heard her teeth snap shut, said: ‘Your job, Charlie, is to make sure the majority of people in the world do not know about people like me. My job, is to deal with people like me.’ He rose. ‘And I intend to.’

OooOooO 

~ ‘I’m fine,’ Claire smiled into the phone.

Her cousin answered: ‘So you’re not giving up the job?’

Claire turned, looked out of the glass of the Payphone. It was one of the old red ones; few now existed. Across the lane, Edenel and Maglor sat on a bench against the low wall. A white cat, the same (surely) as the one she had seen at the cafe, sat upon that wall, still as a statue out of an Egyptian tomb.

‘Of course you can call your family,’ Edenel had said. ‘But not with your mobile or online. A Payphone is safer.’

Her mother and cousin had contacted her the morning after the fire; it was impossible to lock down such news and both of them had seen the live feed from a circling helicopter. She had also told them she was leaving the Clouds, but not where she was going.

‘No,’ she said to Harrison now. ‘It’s mainly just looking after Robin.’

She did not like lying to her cousin, and he was very quick on the uptake so she thought the less she said the less chance he would have to pick holes in her story. It was difficult. She was close to him, and it was natural to want to share. In fact she needed someone to talk to who wasn’t _involved._ At times she still caught herself lifted on a wave of complete unbelief, wondering if she was dreaming and had suddenly woken from that dream, only for the wave to crash down when she would see before her those who cemented that dream into reality and made the world she had known all her life seem in itself misty, half-unreal.

‘I don’t know, jetting about with millionaires and billionaires,’ Harrison was saying amusedly. ‘And all very hush-hush.’ A question hung in the air.

She fell back on the old advice that a lie was better when salted with some truth.  
‘Well, that’s mainly because of Lucien Steele. He’s quite private, and there’s some kind of involvement with the government,’ she added truthfully. ‘But nothing you need worry about.’

‘Claire,’ Harrison dropped his bantering. ‘Are you _sure_ everything’s okay?’

‘Absolutely fine,’ she said heartily. ‘And this is a beautiful place. I might as well be having a holiday.’

‘Okay.’ But he sounded doubtful. ‘You will call again?’

‘Of course.’

After the last ‘goodbye’ fell, she shoved open the phone box door which, in these old red ones, always weighed a ton, and crossed the road. Edenel and Maglor rose at once and joined her as she strolled down into the village. The cat trotted along the wall beside them, then leapt off and streaked away bent on some other destination. She watched its sleek shape and acknowledged (harking back to her previous thoughts) that it was better that they were here, that she could look at them and know her experiences had not been a dream. It would be unbelievably awful to have been through what she had, and have no answers.

The two ranged each side of her, but there was no suggestion of swagger, of their ‘protecting a helpless female’, rather it was the look of warriors, alert, ready. They passed a straggle of neat little cottages and the small harbour opened to that stupendous view. A few little boats were out, dwarfed, even as the village itself was, by sea and mountain and sky.

‘Harrison is okay,’ she volunteered a after a moment’s silent homage. ‘He’s just... I don’t like keeping things from him, and he’s bright enough to work things out from a few clues, so I had to say as little as possible.’

‘It is never easy to keep things from those you love,’ Edenel agreed and, looking up, she saw a look pass between he and Maglor. ‘I am sorry Claire. Perhaps you could go to see him? Vanya could go with you, or we could.’

‘I don’t know.’ But her heart lifted a little. ‘Maybe.’ Although Harrison could certainly read more in her words and evasions in person, it would be comforting to see him again and she was already thinking of...  
She said, looking from one to the other: ‘Luc wants to go with you.’

‘So he has indicated,’ Edenel agreed. ‘It is the call of his blood.’

‘And...I assume the option is open to me, because of what I’ve seen?’ She pushed her hands deep into the pockets of her hoodie.

Edenel glanced down to the harbour. ‘Not because of that. Come, let us talk a little more.’

There was a hiker’s path surrounding the peninsula, running past the village; just beyond the harbour it climbed away into rocky moorland. A bench and table were set there, looking over the sea. Opposite, a small pub had just opened its doors. Maglor went in and returned with a tray of Guinness. Claire eyed it doubtfully; a drink would be refreshing, but the thought crossed her mind that Maglor believed she _needed_ it. Her mouth went a little dry.

It was at Edenel she looked, though. His face was expressionless, but she was beginning to read under the surface of that; they wore it like armour, the Elves, even, she thought, Vanimórë; armour to hide pain, to repress memories that could never be forgotten. She took a quick sip of the black beer. Edenel’s head, white as the foam that topped it, turned to her. She felt as if she were being scrutinised to the depths of her soul and again came that peculiar _familiarity_ , the knowledge that lay just out of reach, as if on the other side of a dream.

‘Vanya told thee of the universes spun out of Vanimórë’s mind,’ he said falling, Claire noted, into antique speech. Maglor was far more skilled at the modern idiom, but there was a certain formality to his speech-patterns, even so. With Edenel, it was as though he had to concentrate to speak in both the tongue and fashion of this world. A blink of an image formed in her mind: a leaping fire in a comfortable room, a blizzard wind outside; the feel of deep-winter cold shut beyond sturdy walls.

Edenel paused. The mild breeze stirred his hair. ‘Claire?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t know. It’s like the dreams, like someone else’s memories in my mind.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Maglor murmured. ‘I have them too. Dreams of another Maglor, another life.’ The silver eyes rested on her thoughtfully.

Edenel nodded. He said, ‘What I am about to tell thee I have told thee before, Claire, in another world.’

Her breath hissed in. ‘Was it...was it winter? A house with a fire?’

The white eyes widened. ‘The Manse, yes. That was in Scotland too. A little further north, but not too far.’

The hairs on the nape of her neck lifted. ‘What were we...what did she do?’

‘She accepted it,’ Edenel said simply, but something in his face closed. ‘As I believe thou wilt.’

‘What?’ she demanded. ‘What aren’t you saying?’

‘I related to her the history of my life. It was...unexpected because I had not told anyone before, and difficult for both of us. I will not do that now, not here.’ He lifted the pint glass and drank. ‘But there are elements of that story in this.’

She was almost vibrating with impatience and forced a deep breath, waiting.

‘Thou didn’t speak of Luc wishing to go with us,’ Edenel said. ‘There are a few — only a few— Mortals born with Elven or Ainur blood, who do not yearn for what they were, even if they do not know their heritage. There are even fewer —‘ He stopped. ‘The choices of the half-Elven they called it in the books. Some of those, descended from the line of Elros, did choose Mortality, and always will. And are a few who _think_ they are reborn Elves — it seems to be quite a common belief — and yet would never give up this world.’ He shrugged. ‘Neither would there be any way for them to leave it. But there are those who are born as Mortals, but who _were_ Elves — or more — and they are rarely satisfied with this world, always searching for something, even into old age. They never feel as if they belong, and do not truly wish to, even when life, relationships, marriage, children and career fill their lives. When it is more than a passing fad, it is a lifelong yearning. I find it exceptionally difficult to dwell here, as does Vanimórë, and so I can comprehend that sense of not belonging.’ At that Maglor smiled wryly.

 _Except there is nowhere for you to go back to._ ‘Like Marcus,’ she said softly. ‘And Luc.’

‘And no doubt Leon, too. I believe for such people there is a way to leave.’

‘The thin places,’ Maglor stated.

‘Yes, the ancient portals. At times, they can open, for those with the blood.’

‘That is where the legends originate, of people passing into barrows, tombs, through standing stones, and vanishing. Or appearing,’ Maglor added, with a faint smile. ‘I have used them, as has Tindómion, and you have, to come here.’

‘Yes,’ Edenel agreed. ‘And once, Vanimórë sent thy son through one to avoid being burnt to death as a witch.’

Claire started, turned to look at Maglor, who burned up in an instant fury at the thought of any wishing to harm Tindómion; she could almost see the fiery aura around his head like a coronal of white flame. She was suddenly afraid that anyone looking out of the pub windows, anyone walking past, would see him exactly as he was.

‘It never happened.’ Edenel reach out out to touch his hand, grip it. ‘Vanimórë would not permit it.’ Maglor bent his head in tight acknowledgement, but his beautiful mouth was set with rage. The look of a Fëanorion when anything threatens his family.  
‘Yes, there have been a few close calls,’ he said still with the flick of fire in his voice. ‘For both of us. But go on.’

‘But your dreams,’ Edenel turned to Claire. ‘At least until now, have been of the Ancient Times, the universe that existed before all others. We spoke of it on the train.’

‘Yes.’ And she still found it difficult to convince herself it had anything to do with her. But she had refused Vanya’s offer to _forget_...

‘With thee, two worlds come together,’ he said. ‘Andúnië. In Middle-earth it was the great western port city of old Númenor.’ Again, Claire’s flesh prickled at the names so easily spoken of as being (once) _real_.

‘Sunset, in Quenya,’ Maglor interpolated thoughtfully.

‘Andúnië, in the Ancient world. The Lady of the Sunset, the goddess of the first harvest moon, the Woman of thresholds — between summer and autumn, and of other gateways too, I think.’ Edenel’s eyes became opaque and his words seemed to flow into Claire with the sunlight, with the cloud shadows over the mountains, in the taste of salt from the sea. It was like opening a book she had read long ago and somehow forgotten. _A book within a book, worlds within worlds._ Beside her, Maglor was as still as a carving, but his attention sharpened like the tip of a spear.  
‘And then, in my world, in this one, (and other, also) Culina,’ Edenel continued. ‘Unbegotten, with hair like thine,’ he said, and told her of the _Ithiledhil_ , the survivors of Utumno. And the clouds blocked out the sun and a shadow fell across the land, and the breeze turned chill from the north.

 _He’s skating across it as thin ice,_ Claire thought, and in the back of her mind were horrors that rendered words feeble and useless. _He’s told me before, or told a version of me, and it was the first time he ever related it to anyone._ She frowned, concentrating, as if she might she and hear that other-Claire in the Manse, in that fire-lit room in winter. A flash of snow-white caught her eye, but it was only the cat, who apparently considered the entire village his domain. It trotted out of the pub doorway and across the road, pouring up onto the low wall.

‘In this world I died as I did in most worlds,’ Edenel said, as if it did not matter at all. ‘But Culina bore a child. Our child. Her life was ill-suited for the raising of children, for in this world she became chieftain of the _Ithiledhil_. In other worlds she harboured the babe in Menegroth, under Melian’s protection; in this one, she gave her (for it was a girl) into the care of Finrod Felagund.’  
‘Finrod travelled; he met the folk of Bëor as they came out of the East. It was on one of those journeys that Culina met him. She might have approached the Fëanorions, or Fingolfin, but they were always going to be at the forefront of the war and she wanted her child to be harboured in safety. So she approached Finrod, spoke to him, and whatever came later: the prohibition of accepting back thralls who escaped from Angband, he took the child to Nargothrond and raised her. I am not sure he knew Culina’s history, what she revealed. In my world, she never spoke after Utumno, but Finrod was open-hearted and wise —‘ At this a strange, bitter smile formed and died fleetingly on Maglor’s mouth.

‘ _The world was fair, the mountains tall,_  
_In Elder Days before the fall_  
_Of mighty kings in Gondolin,_  
_And Nargothrond, who now beyond_  
_The Western Seas have passed away...’_  
  
Maglor’s voice, like the resonance of poured gold, and Claire thought: _Finrod, who died such a terrible death, and yet kept his vow..._ But in all the poems nothing of the Fëanorions, whose lands looked Angband right in its black teeth and saw the smoke rising from Thangorodrim. No great cities, but fortresses built for war. There was a lump in her throat like a stuck jewel as she said, ‘Do you know what happened to the child, what her name was?’

‘Her name was Sercenecel,’ Edenel said softly. ‘It means ‘Blood Thorn’ in Quenya. A weapon’s name more usually, but in this case I understand: the child was of Culina’s body and blood and would remain a thorn piercing her heart even when she was gone.’

Claire blinked at a sudden rising of hot tears.

‘How do you know this?’ Maglor asked.

‘When we discovered Claire was in this world, I returned to the Timeless Halls, and looked in the Portal.’ Edenel responded. ‘Sercenecel was very close to Finrod, and after his death, she went with Celebrimbor out of Nargothrond, and later settled in Ost-in-Edhil. Culina was a skilled crafter before Utumno, and Sercenecel inherited that talent. She became a member of the _Gwaith-i-Mirdain_ , and worked with Celebrimbor and others on the crafting of the Three Elven Rings.’ A couple of walkers appeared, strode past, talking softly, and Edenel let them disappear around a curve in the road before continuing.  
‘She married one of Celebrimbor’s smiths, and bore two children, twins,’ he smiled faintly. ‘The daughter went to Lindon, where she became one of Gil-galad’s counsellers, and the son remained in Eregion. He and Sercenecel and her husband both died when Sauron’s forces came down on the city. They were fighting with Celebrimbor. None of them were of a mind to flee.’

Claire clasped her hands in her lap. It seemed like an old tale told by firelight, and nothing to do with her, and yet it was. It was. _And that is why I’m so unnerved. If it was nothing to do with me I would simply laugh it off. I would have asked to forget._  
‘So...how did the blood come to me?’

‘That was through Sercenecel’s daughter, Daeris,’ Edenel told her. ‘She did not marry but, after Númenor came to the aid of Gil-galad, she went often to Númenor as the High King’s representative. There was a lover of the house of the Lords of Andúnië.’ He sent her a swift, searching look. There was that name again. ‘Perhaps Daeris had inherited some of Culina’s disposition, at least she placed her career at the forefront and was not overly thrilled to find herself with child. It was a quandary for her, though she would have loved the babe. At first, she said nothing to her sometimes-lover but at last she informed him, thinking it only fair. It seems that the the young lord of Andúnië was delighted, as was his family. They adopted the child, a boy she named Brannalph, and he was deeply loved, but sentiment in Númenor was already turning against the Elves, but for the Faithful, and so he left, dwelling for a time in Vinyalondë where he also came to know his mother. But he fell in love with a Mortal woman and took her to wife. She bore him three children, and died late in life after a long and happy union. Because Brannalph’s children were grown, he found his way to Imladris where he dwelt until his death in the Wars against Angmar where the Witch-king slew him. Tindómion would have known him,’ he said to Maglor. ‘But it was through him that Elven blood comes to thee, Claire.’

She shook her head slowly, digesting this impossible history, looking down at her hands, the faint veins under the pale skin and thought that in that thin darkness ran the same blood that flowed in Maglor and Edenel’s veins.  
‘I don’t know what to think,’ she said honestly. ‘I don’t _feel_ like...them. I’m _your_ descendent.’ she addressed Edenel, who inclined his head gravely. Those magnificent and strange eyes warmed. But he would not press it, she thought, he would not claim her. Freedom, she realised, meant too much to him.  
‘Ah yes.’ He answered her thoughts. ‘No-one will ever force thee or coerce thee, or even try to persuade thee. When the time of choice comes, it must be thine alone.’

‘You are _yourself_ , Claire. ‘Maglor spoke. ‘And you bring to your heritage all of your life thus far. But I think I understand. You need more — more than dreams, than words, more even than what you have witnessed. You wish to _see_ the past.’ He reached into his jacket pocket drew out a mirror-case and laid it on the table. She frowned, looked up at him. ‘What is it?’

‘A fragment of a whole,’ he said.

‘In the old universe — in my universe, Fëanor created a great mirror.’ Edenel reached out to touch it gently. ‘It was created to copy the Portal in the Timeless Halls. Fëanor was a genius; his mind ran on the paths of gods even before his apotheosis. When that universe was destroyed, the Mirror became dislodged. It was broken, later, and shards spun out across space-time. It shows glimpses of this world, and others. Rather like Galadriel’s Mirror, I suppose, but also far more than that.’

The sun had breached the clouds. Light splintered into Claire’s eyes as it struck the mirror’s surface. She blinked.

‘Look in it, for it may show you what you wish to know, but be cautious,’ Maglor warned. ‘Remember in the book, the _Lord of the Rings,_ how the Hobbit, Pippin, looked into the Palantir Gandalf recovered from Isengard? The Mirror is the same. No-one knows who else might possess these fragments. No-one knows.’ he said seriously, ‘Who may look back at you.’

OooOooO

~ Woodsend had once been a farmhouse away beyond the end of the little village. In the 70’s it had been bought and extensively remodelled; the old cow and milking sheds were transformed into a cottage and workshop, while the house retained much of its rambling charm. The woods that gave it its name still pressed close behind it, and the house was hidden from the lane by stands of trees. The villagers knew little of its owner; he was not often there, but many of the properties in the commuter belt were owned by bankers and rich City workers who were mostly absent. They might come for a weekend or longer to enjoy the peace, then head back to their jobs in the City.

Arthur May had chosen the place because it was secluded. It was not far from London, where he regularly convened for business, but completely rural. A cleaner lived there, a woman long in his service, whose lips might have been sewn shut, so closely did she guard her master’s secrets.

She was not present now, in this long, quiet room where the last of the rain lay in clear pearls on the French windows; clear as the eyes of the man who pivoted on his foot, turning from the brightening sky to look across at Mairon.  
Mairon saw what everyone on this world was supposed to see — and what they did not: A tall, slim man with a thick crown of soft silvery curls and eyes as clear as spring-water, a man with the face of an angel — albeit an angel who would carry a flaming sword. There was little of softness there, and behind the appearance he presented, none at all. _That_ being, the one Mairon could glimpse behind the glamour, stood yet taller, a mass of pure silver hair pouring to his knees, bound with a crown. The crown was set with one flaming gem that seemed to swirl with patterns of green and blue.

The eyes were turned on him, unblinking. They were unfathomable, fringed by thick dark lashes. Mairon knew that face, and not from his old life or the life before that, when he was a formless power. A face out of a dream...

He would not have concerned himself with the second body in the mortuary had it not been for Howard’s unwilling words, and even he knew little. A difficult man to crack, that one, until his daughter had been brought into the equation. All men had their weaknesses.

The rain-coloured eyes moved to Leon, back to Mairon. Dark brows lifted.  
‘I believe we are almost done here, Arthur May.’

‘Are we?’ Mairon asked lightly, watchfully.

‘Why yes.’ The voice was sweet, clear, unaccented, but beneath it like an echo was a voice that chimed with the birth of galaxies — and their destruction. Power beyond measure. ‘I am not interested in thy petty power games in this world, Mairon. There is only one thing I want from thee.’

‘Howard Wainwright told me that Vanimórë said you could hide from him; the only being in the universe that can, apparently.’ He lifted interrogative brows.

A strange expression crossed the lovely face. ‘The heart can hide from itself, Mairon.’

‘You would know...Eru.’

‘Always so clever,’ Eru murmured, then glanced again at the mute and fascinated Leon, whose mouth moved into a faint smile that he hid behind one hand. Mairon caught the expression and concealed his own amusement. Not quite the same, this Leon St. Cloud. That other Mairon’s blood had added something — or taken it away. With all his memories intact, there was less eagerness to please, more steel, more _edge_ more, in fact, of the Vanimórë who had not hesitated to put a bullet into Leon’s heart — and Samael Bennett’s.

‘So what _do_ you want?’ Mairon asked. His hand settled on the downturned mirror shard on the table.

‘Dost thou not know? Eru asked. ‘Thou art a part of it. Use that remarkable brain of thine, but do not interfere,’ he warned. ‘Like Vanimórë, I cannot enter this world with a tithe of my power, but I do not _forget._ It would be wise to remember that.’ He came closer, leaned on the heavy table. ‘Mairon. Born out of metal and Earth-fire and cold, the one who never sought me out, who was content to be alone.’ The stir of a faint, wry smile that disturbed Mairon, sent his mind forking into the past — a past that went far beyond his most ancient memories.  
He remembered _becoming_ ; remembered the Timeless Halls, the mark of a creator where no creator walked, and how the gods had spun tales around that absent power. He had never believed those tales. Yet he had wondered, for _something_ (or someone) had surely created those stupendous and limitless halls.

‘Has he not told thee, the Mairon-that-was?’ Eru laid one white hand flat over Mairon’s, where it lay on the mirror. A slender hand, yet it felt as if the weight of a thousand worlds rested over his own. ‘Is it not strange that we think of the world, the cosmos, as being outside oneself?’ He lifted the hand, ran his fingertips gently, unsettlingly down Mairon’s cheek. Who did not move. ‘Thou, this world, this universe, and those long gone, exist as a mote within a Creator’s eye. In a sense, we sleep, and we dream, Vanimórë and I.’  
‘ _Dost_ thou dream?’ he murmured then, into Mairon’s startled, illuminated silence and, without waiting for an answer. ‘Watch for them and observe them.’ He turned to Leon, and Mairon’s eyes narrowed at the expression in the lucent eyes: like love, but the love given in despair, the shared poison cup before a castle falls to attack; a blasting, unforgiving, inhuman emotion and one that even Mairon could not understand. It was nothing like Melkor’s lust for Fëanor, or Mairon’s own admiration and desire for Celebrimbor (that had become a rage of disappointment).  
Neither was it wholly directed at Leon, but rather at a memory of someone who looked like him.

‘Now,’ Eru said. ‘I have come for what is mine.’ Sunlight ripped through the western clouds, cast his shadow on the wall. For a moment, the shadow was of great triple wings; then they faded into the sway of leafy branches in the wind.

Mairon rose. ‘Come, then.’ He passed through the quiet house, up the stairs. Along a passageway where the old wood-panelling smelled of beeswax, bedrooms and bathroom doors showed blank and shut.

Leon said, ‘Howard said Vanimórë thought him an imposter for the real Samael, that he spoke his name, a name he could not have known.’

‘Vanimórë _hoped_ he was. He thought Samael Bennett was me. And he is not so very wrong. He, or rather his original incarnation _was_ me, or a part of me. Long ago, I told Vanimórë he was the best part of me, and that is also true.’ They had stopped before one of the doors. Eru shone silvery, remote and terrible in the corridor’s dimness. ‘Knowest thou what a _tulpa_ , is?’ The question was addressed to both of them.

‘Of course,’ Mairon replied. ‘A thought-form. Even a Mortal adept can create one.’

‘I needed to be born into the world,’ Eru’s eyes turned back to the door. ‘I could, in fact, have entered it as I do now, as Vanimórë does, but I had always been as I was, I could not imagine abdicating the greater part of my power. But born as a child, knowing nothing...that would be an experience, also. A learning curve, as they say here. And certainly one of those I sought would be more accepting of a child.’  
‘And so, I — or he — was born. Elgalad; ostensibly an Elf, but as part of me he knew his mission, and that he needs must live as much as possible as an Elf, showing no power, subject to all the hurts of the world. But he also became a real person. My child, as it were, my second son.’ His voice picked up a thrum of grief, of anger, that terrible immortal love. ‘When a Creator’s mind creates, it _is real.‘_

‘Apparently,’ Mairon agreed. 

‘Vanimórë though Samael Bennett was me.,’ Eru let out a little hiss of breath, but the amusement in it was bitter. ‘In a way he is almost correct. But Samael was also Elgalad. And he began to remember his other life, at least a little of it which was why, at the end, he spoke Vanimórë’s name, and why Vanimórë killed him. How ironic.’ He laid a hand on the door handle, turned it. 

A son; yes, one could see it Mairon thought. The young man was cast in a softer mould, not in the lovely lines of his face, the clarity of his eyes, but in the expression, a certain sweetness in the curve of the mouth. It was not weak nor gentle, but it asked for a kiss. 

He had been standing at the window, dressed casually in black jeans and a grey polo shirt. Turning, he looked at Mairon, almost expressionless, at Leon (expression came back into his eyes with recognition) and then at Eru.  
‘Hello, father,’ he said. 

__

__

OooOooO


	4. ~ Blackwater ~

  
  


**~ Blackwater ~**

~ ‘I remember everything,’ Elgalad said. ‘I think I was beginning to before...dreams, feelings of familiarity. And wanting... _him._ Wanting to be with him. But now...everything,’

Elgalad had died many thousands of years ago, but it had not been Vanimórë’s love that killed him, though it had suited Eru to let Vanimórë believe it. If Sauron had forged his son as a sword is forged, so had Eru, if to a different end. _Thou wert indeed forged on the anvil of the gods, Vanimórë._

Houseless, Elgalad had drifted for thousands more years until his part was played and he was regathered to Eru. Ungoliant had not swallowed his soul; Eru would never have permitted that though he knew that, at the end, Elgalad had not been so certain.

After, gathered into the bright silence, Elgalad could only observe as Eru became _him_ standing close beside Vanimórë — and unleashed Melkor to bring down Dagor Dagorath. And he had wept, because Eru too, had wept.  
  
Eru guided the car out of town the village. He smiled to himself. A love of good, fast cars was another thing that he and Vanimórë had in common. But Eru’s Bentley Continental was silver as mercury, silver as the glance of a Fëanorion’s eyes.  
He said: ‘I wanted thee to remember, now.’ He cast a quick look at the lovely profile beside him. It was cool as well-water, but a little frown drew the dark brows together under the angelic curls of silver hair.  
  
‘There was no other way. At least I thought so at the time and still think so. Vanimórë was always going to be the most difficult. And I admit I did not realise that thou wouldst take on a life of thine own. I should have.’ And it had not displeased him; rather it was like an unplanned pregnancy where the child becomes much loved despite that fact. He was not even sure when he had become aware of the fact that Elgalad was becoming real, but still he was obedient, after the manner of a well-trained child. As Eru had said to Vanimórë, he genuinely was the best part of him, the aspect that had simply loved and wanted to share his universe with others.  
  
Elgalad said, ‘We broke his heart.’  
  
‘Hearts do not break so easily.’ And Eru smiled wryly at himself. His heart had broken, but knitted itself back together in cold and vengeful fury, which he later regretted. ‘It _almost_ broke, yes, just as he himself almost broke, but did not.’ He slowed at the motorway junction as trucks and cars sped north, and eased into the flow. ‘He had to come into his power alone, just as he holds power alone. And it had to be him, not one of the others. Even Maglor, in his long wandering at least had the memories of love, of companionship, his family. Vanimórë had no-one save the guilt of killing his sister and a father who betrayed and used him.’  
  
He had driven Vanimórë into apotheosis. knowing it was within his power, and he had achieved it — alone, in grief, in transcendent agony — and had become more than Eru ever expected.  
  
‘What dost thou wish me to do?’ Elgalad asked, his eyes fixed ahead. ‘This time? Thou knowest he never truly loved me. He loved the innocence he thought he saw in me. And, although he did not know it, he loved the memory of _thee_.’  
  
Eru’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. ‘Which was the reason he so fought against Mairon, and loathed Mairon’s betrayal and usage. He knew that there had been a time when his father did love him.’ Now in the third lane, the engine purred and the car ran like a lion unleashed to the kill.  
  
‘I cannot entrap him, not again,’ Elgalad said quietly.  
  
‘Do not think he did not love thee, he is capable of great love. He burns, but such a cold fire sometimes,’ he murmured. ‘Nothing like Fëanor.’  
  
‘Yet he is always drawn to the house of Fëanor.’  
  
‘Naturally. He is not weak; the fire does not burn him. As to thy question: I am going to play it by ear.’ At the questioning glance. ‘We are out of balance, Vanimórë and I, equal power and yet we cannot _meet_. Andúnië is the key. She is the centre, just as Andúnië was in the world long ago. The Axis Mundi. I needed her to create Vanimórë but it was an act of love, not calculation. It was a wondrous discovery. I need her to rebuild a new world. I think thou shouldst meet with her, and with the others and tell them the truth. We need to meet, Vanimórë and I — and Andúnië— and I can only do that through an intermediary.’  
  
‘Vanimórë.’ Ages of love and longing hung heavy as a bloody heart in the palm of an outstretched hand.  
  
‘Vanimórë,’ Eru said. ‘Would not be able to countenance an Elf reborn as Mortal. He will not turn from thee.’  
  
‘I am a memory of heartache and loss,’ Elgalad said stonily.  
  
‘Not only that,’ Eru said, quite gently. ‘He did love thee and he will not turn thee away, because thou hast suffered in this life. The one thing he does absolutely comprehend is suffering. And he is intelligent enough to realise thou art _thyself_ , not merely an aspect of me.‘  
  
There was a long pulse of silence, but Eru read it as clear as print. Elgalad _was_ part of him, after all. Elgalad said, tautly: ‘I would have it all back. I want to go home. Yes, I suffered here.’ He shrugged. ‘But it is nothing in comparison to being an alien in an alien world. When I was with him at Summerland, even before I remembered, it felt like coming home.’  
  
‘I know, and we will go home, all of us.’ But Eru was thinking (as he had for so long the any number placed on it was meaningless) of a new home, another home, with those he loved — and hated.  
  
‘We cannot return; it is gone.’  
  
‘A mote in the eye of a god,’ Eru murmured. Elgalad’s head turned to look at him.  
‘Perhaps it cannot be as it was for thee,’ he said gently. ‘Vanimórë is...the hardest substance in the universe. He will kill rather than weep. He killed _thee_ , but he will consider it unfair, once he knows that thou art truly Elgalad.’  
  
‘There is a thing I do not understand,’ Elgalad murmured. ‘If Vanimórë is thy son, how is he thy coeval in power?’  
  
Eru frowned at the road. ‘That is the question is it not? And I do not know, Elgalad, I truly do not know.’ It was this — and the impasse it had created between them — that must be broken.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

Maglor and Tindómion both knew St. Andrews, as did Edenel — in another reality and it was decided that they would accompany Claire, spending three days there while she visited her cousin. They booked a house on the Scores, a huge, beautifully furnished place with a superb view of the beach where the south-east wind pushed long white combers onto the sand. There was a harp in the living room; a smile flickered on Maglor’s face and he raised his brows. ‘How charming.’

It was decided to invite Harrison for dinner rather than meet him in a restaurant or bar, so Tindómion and Maglor cooked during the afternoon. Neither of them were particularly domestic, but had learned through a case of needs must. Yet the sight of them in even such a pleasant kitchen, was jarring to Edenel who watched and leant a hand. His mind excised the room as neatly as a surgeon’s knife and he saw instead their counterparts as he had seen them in Middle-earth, in Valinor, in the Timeless Halls, their glory shining as it was meant to shine, not muted by the glamour they were forced to wear, here. The thought caused him to wield the chopping knife with a little more force than necessary.

The three of them would eat in the kitchen to give Claire and Harrison time to catch up and talk without needing to include almost-strangers, at least to Harrison. All Claire needed to do was collect the three-course meal from the kitchen.

About an hour and half after his arrival, Claire lead Harrison into the lounge. Maglor was sitting, running his fingers down the strings of the harp, Tindómion had gone out for a walk, saying he would return later. Edenel stood looking out over the view; he turned as the door opened.

Claire’s cousin was tall and compact, a head of dark hair danced somewhere between soft curls and softer waves; a scatter of freckles over a face of emphatic bones. His eyes were acute, bright and dark. On first inspection, the cousins were not much alike until a turn of the head, a smile, brought the relationship into sharper focus.

Maglor’s finger’s stilled. Edenel felt the jolt of shock. Then, as Claire introduced them, Maglor gathered himself and rose, smiling.  
‘How do you do?’

It was not going to work, Edenel saw, as Claire and Harrison sat down with whiskey. It was in the way Harrison looked at them, as if seeing a similarity only heightened when Tindómion joined them. Even under glamour, Tindómion was so like his father. Maglor adroitly drew Harrison into a conversation about the last musical he had performed in, his singing and the stage but, Edenel thought, _He is not going to accept or forget this night._ Unless some power was brought to bear. He glanced at Claire, saw from her face she knew quite well that this was a mistake. But how grave a one? She gave an imperceptible head-shake.

‘He knows there is something...off,’ she said later, when Harrison had gone. ‘But he would be more worried about me than anything else.’ Her head turned to Maglor. ‘When he came in....what was it?’

Maglor’s brows rose a little in surprise, but he answered: ‘Nothing Claire. I suppose..I think I was expecting him to look more like thee.’  
But later, when the house and night were dim and quite, he said to Edenel: ‘He reminded me a little of Elros and Elrond. Something in the bones. And Tindómion told me he was reminded of Elrond.’

‘The line of Elros,’ Edenel said thoughtfully. ‘Yes, it could be. She is fond of him,’ he added.

‘And I see why. I am not necessarily expecting her to come with us,’ Maglor responded. ‘It will be a wrench.’

‘It will be her choice,’ Edenel assured him. ‘No-one will ever force it upon her.’

‘ _We_ would never do so,’ Tindómion averred. ‘But what if something — someone — else does?’

OooOooO

~ It stretched forever. Gardens lapped towers that pierced the stratosphere, trees made of gems shed their living flowers to float on water the colour of turquoise. Flame-coloured leaves were shed and exploded into fireflies, moths that trailed fire. Colonnades as long as a continent passed over seas where creatures unknown on any world breathed the waves, ruled the abyssal deeps. Chamber opened onto chambers formed of diamond, of amber, of malachite, of ice, of water — or changed at the sweep of a thought, a creator’s whim. Stairs spiralled into the heights, broke through rain clouds, the very atmosphere until only a god could stand on the pinnacles and reach their hand to cup the stars.

He did so, feeling the blaze only distantly, before letting them spin away.

The Eternal Palace.

Even a god could walk here forever and never come to its end.

OooOooO

The stallion’s long strides slowed to a springy walk, nostrils huffing, but Rob Roi was in no way blown by the gallop. Marcus slapped the hot, silken neck and smiled.

He had said he would exercise the stallion while Claire was away, and had been itching to ride him since first seeing him. The experience was exhilarating, taking him back to another world, another life.

He and Luc had walked this track yesterday, hiking a full ten miles up into the hills, past the thin dark lochan that stared black and deep at the sky. The track was suitable for horses, though used primarily by hikers. But Ellie Campbell said her erstwhile mistress had often ridden those paths.

‘Not past the Lochan Dubh, though,’ she added, beating a cake mix vigorously.

Marcus and Luc exchanged a glance.

‘It’s a good track for a gallop,’ Marcus said mildly. ‘At least up to that loch. Why not?’

Ellie Campbell did not look up. ‘No-one goes that way much,’ was all she said.

Today Luc had gone for a walk with Vanya, and Marcus rode out alone, keeping Rob Roi to a walk and trot until the path rose toward the massive inland hills. He kept an eye out for walkers but saw none, just as he had not yesterday. The track that lead gently down toward the lochan lay empty under the cloud-scudding sky, and here he let the stallion go.

The Lochan Dubh — or the Blackwater, and a local legend told that it was bottomless. Deep, anyhow, Marcus thought. It seemed carved out of the bedrock by some violent movement of the mountains millions of years ago that wretched them apart and clashed shut leaving this deep crack to fill with water. A mile or so in length, and less than half that wide, it was bounded by rock and heather. Not a reed grew on its shores, and no water bird floated on its surface. The wind blew cold across it and, yesterday, both he and Luc had been glad to pass it. At the further end, a menhir stood stark and bleak, like a warning.

There were other legends about this place. Though Ellie Campbell was loath to talk, Vanya was not, and there were books in the study. Lady Fayne had apparently taken a keen interest in Scottish folklore.  
Like Loch Ness and Loch Morar, the Blackwater was supposed to harbour a monster, or water horse, in its depths. Marcus thought a living creature unlikely, but there was a definite atmosphere that Luc also felt — unsurprisingly. Reaching the menhir, he reached out to touch it. There were faint markings on its surface, long eroded by the elements. Pictish perhaps, or older.

‘Something. Sleeping...’ Then Luc looked up, long-lidded dark eyes grave. ‘Do you feel it? The village, it’s like Claire’s cottage at the Clouds. A zone of influence, of protection around it.’ He lifted his hand away from the stone, gestured. ‘Well, in this direction, it stops, here.’

Marcus frowned. ‘As if there is a kind of barrier we crossed. Yes.’

‘Perhaps why there are no hikers here,’ Luc suggested. ‘The OS maps show other tracks into the village.’

‘Possibly,’ Marcus agreed. ‘Have you always been aware of such...energies?’

Luc nodded. ‘When I was young. Do you remember that night when we shared wine very late?’ Marcus smiled. ‘I told you that I had relatives in Morbihan, in Brittany? We visited them when I was about seven, I think, and they took us to Carnac.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Carnac, where great avenues of standing stones hinted at a message long lost. If anywhere held a multitude of portals to other worlds, Marcus thought, Carnac was it.

‘I said something about being watched, about feeling something...’ Luc shook his head as if trying to dislodge an elusive memory. ‘I do not remember, possibly because my parents told me not to be so silly. They seemed angry, and made me feel foolish. For a young boy that is devastating.’ He gave a charming little crook of his mouth. ‘And I think I subconsciously didn’t _want_ to feel such things.’

‘I do know what you mean,’ Marcus assured him.

‘I thought you might.’ Luc set his eyes ahead as they walked on. ‘But years later — the year before I started university in fact — I spent six months in the US and Canada.’

Marcus looked at him, after a minute of walking, saw the full lips sent tight. ‘Yes?’ he prompted gently.

Almost under his breath, Luc said, ‘It was something I wanted to forget, but what does that count for, now?’ Then he turned his head. ‘When I was in Canada, I went on a hiking trip. Not alone, of course. I booked into a group. It was fall, and beautiful weather, but the weather can change fast in the north. And it did. Oh, there was no danger; they know not to take risks up there and we were headed to a campsite, log cabins, showers, you know — but then the blizzard came down and slowed us, and dusk was falling. The snow was blinding, almost hypnotic and I began to be frightened...cold.’ He glanced sidelong. ‘I have always loved the wilderness, hiking, even walking on my own. I’ve spent weeks alone camping and hiking in France and Italy. This was not a fear of becoming lost; it was something else. And then...I heard a voice.’ He stopped, and Marcus saw the clench of his jaw, the convulsive swallow. ‘I heard a voice calling my name, and it was familiar. I thought it was my mother’s voice.’

‘My gods,’ Marcus said, remembering his own time in the north of America, tales he had heard.

‘I just turned toward it, walked away from the group...Yes, that easily. As if I were entranced. I remember the slap of pine branches showering snow on me. I am not sure how long I walked. Then came to a clearing.’ Luc looked around at the hills, the shining sea. Marcus put out a hand. Luc’s eyes came back to his.  
‘And I saw it. It was incredibly tall, twice our height, emaciated, grey, long arms and legs, teeth like razors, a long tongue lolling over them and eyes...’ His own slammed shut. ‘It was _dead_. It was dead, half rotting. I could smell it, but it was _alive_. Somehow alive...and Its eyes—‘

‘Luc,’ Marcus whispered, cold in the bright day.

‘I have never felt fear like it save at the Clouds,’ Luc said tautly, grimacing. ‘This creature, I knew it wanted to devour me. Such hunger in it...But I could not move; that sort of terror literally does freeze one. I had no weapon, and I don’t think I could have used one and I knew, I knew it would be useless. You can’t kill something like that with a gun.’ His fingers ran restlessly up and down the straps of his backpack and the fear was there, the memory of it like a cold wire in a vein. ‘And then... there was something like a flood of heat through me, more than that, a feeling — perhaps the same feeling the land experiences in spring when the earth warms and the sap rises, vitality is the word. And the snow falling in the clearing turned to rain. The ground steamed. I think I said something to it, shouted it, but the words were not in French or English. I am not even sure if _I_ spoke them or something used me.’ He shrugged, but a shiver ambushed the movement halfway. ‘But it staggered back, and then lifted its head and _howled_. I will never forget that sound. It was not human and yet there was a kind of humanity in it that made it more terrible. It sounded wounded, agonised, balked, furious. _Hungry_ , yet fearful too. A damned soul. It could drive a man mad. And then it backed into the trees. I saw the branches break and heard them crackle, so it was real, not a ghost. The rain stopped. The clearing seemed bright and green as such places do in summer.’

‘And then?’ Marcus asked after a long moment.

Luc shrugged. ‘I turned and walked back. I wasn’t lost, really, I knew the way to go. I’ve never been lost. After a few minutes I saw two of the group. They’d been looking for me. They said later I must have been gone an hour but it did not feel like that. The storm had passed, and even the snow was melting.’ They began to walk again. ‘No-one said anything about it, but that night, in the camp, I couldn’t sleep. I kept wondering if that thing had followed me, was watching from the tree-line. I got up and went out onto the porch, and one of the group joined me; one of the ones who found me. I had noticed him, because he was very handsome,’ this with a flickering smile. ‘But quiet, you know. Reserved. He had some coffee out and I thanked him and we just sat there for a while drinking it. There was a moon. It seemed very peaceful.’  
  
The path rose up from the black loch, and as they crested the rise the wind buffeted them, mild and playful.  
  
‘After a while, he began to talk. He was half Cree, he said, First Nations, and he told me that he had heard that terrible howl. I was almost glad to know that someone else had heard it, that it was not my imagination, that I wasn’t going crazy! And then, he spoke of a legend of the northern tribes and the Algonquin people, of a dreadful spirit of famine and cold, of the deep winter, a demon of ice and hunger. Of cannibalism. He wouldn’t name it, said it was unwise, but that I should google it after, when I had left Canada. I did.’  
  
‘The Wendigo,’ Marcus said.  
  
‘ _You_ have encountered one?’ Luc stared at him.  
  
‘No. No, but we spent some time up in Northern Maine, some years ago. It was the last trip I took with Vanya before I joined the VSO. We travelled through the America’s from south to north. I’ve heard one. Very far away. Vanya said that was what it was, that howl. She knows these things; she’s moved among the ancient peoples of the world for a long time; she knows their legends. She _is_ some of them.’ He indicated a worn boulder and they sat down, shucking their backpacks and taking out water bottles.  
  
‘Mat — that was what he asked me to call him, although he had a Cree name — said that sometimes hikers go missing and nothing is found, no trace, no body. Few people walk away from the Wendigo, but I did because of what I was.’ Luc drank, capped the bottle. ‘He said I was antithetical to such a thing.’  
  
‘Yes,’ Marcus agreed. ‘Yes, you would be. But why did you think of it, when we passed the Blackwater?’  
  
Luc stared down at the narrow lochan. ‘Yes,’ he murmured. ‘Why? It is not the same, Marcus, but there is _something_ , some ancient malice. Sleeping, I think. Sleeping far down in the water.’  
  
‘I wonder,’ Marcus said. ‘Why that creature would target you, if you could banish it; why not one of the others in your group? Did you feel it was intelligent?’  
  
Luc closed his eyes. ‘It’s difficult to think of it.’ But he frowned in concentration. ‘The hunger was the greatest; there was something there though, that was not an animal. Demon, maybe, though I don’t think I ever believed in them despite my Catholic background, not before then, anyhow.’ He smiled faintly. ‘But Mat told me they imitate voices, so there must be some thought. And it was my mother’s voice I heard. I thought she said, _”Come in from the cold, Luc!”_ And she sounded warm, loving, accepting. It was something I wanted to hear...and never had.’  
  
‘I’m so sorry,’ Marcus said, thinking of what a life must be like when one’s parents expected so much and would not accept less than perfection and normality. A gay son would be anathema to them. His mind branched off then, to Leon, who must have felt very much the same, and that long-ago Vanimórë that they had _both_ been, wishing for a father’s love. A little shiver passed through him.  
  
‘I know. I knew that night we talked that you understood.’ The small smile warmed. ‘But what are you thinking?’  
  
‘I’m not sure. I just wonder if something else, something more powerful, sent that thing against you. Maybe to test you, or in the hope that it would devour you, or turn you into another servant.’  
  
Luc stared at him. ‘You mean Sauron?’  
  
‘It might be,’ Marcus said. ‘I think perhaps we should stay away from that place.’ He nodded down to the loch. ‘If Sauron can use such things, he will.’  
  
‘You may be right, but the...’ He snapped his fingers. ‘ _Genius loci_ , that’s it, isn’t it, the protective spirit of a place? It is strong here. There are many such places, I think, that are guarded. And this guardian spirit must have been here a long time, since that little loch was formed and something made it home.’  
  
Out of bravado, or a more elemental defiance, they returned to the village that way rather than the longer track and Marcus thought: _Yes,_ there is something here, and a quote floated into his mind: _There are older and fouler things than orcs in the deep places of the world..._ And, what was it? _Even Sauron knows them not, they are older than he._ * He thought of Lovecraftian horrors from the Outside, from the gaps between the stars, born from the nightmares of a god’s mind. And he thought of looking into the violet eyes of a god who had seen everything he ever needed to fear.  
  
  
  
He had not purposed to come this way again, but the track that lead toward the Blackwater was one of the best places to exercise Rob Roi. A good mile and a half to gallop, the incline so gentle that it was hardly noticeable, that made the way seem almost friendly, easy on the legs. A shoulder of the hill hid the loch so that one came on it unexpectedly, at which time one either turned back or went on.  
  
When the stallion saw the loch his ears went flat and his hindquarters turned sideways. He pranced, jogged, pulled against the bit. He snorted, then stood, stamping, huffing. When Marcus closed his thighs, touched him with his heels, he sidled, dancing, bunched up. His satiny hide was hot, his eye rolling white. Then he went up on his hind legs with a scream, lashing out, hooves thudding back onto the dry turf like hammers. Fear yes, Marcus thought, but more anger. A warhorse’s response, and he remembered Claire’s tale of riding down the Peddar’s Way.  
  
‘Alright, beauty, we have no need to go that way.’ _Alright, soul-of-Seran. I trust Luc, and my own instincts and I trust you._  
  
For a few heartbeats Rob Roi stood, nostrils flared, hide twitching — then his ears pricked forward and he exploded into a gallop.  
Down to the Blackwater.  
  
Marcus simply let him go, his surprise driven away, into nothingness by that beautiful feeling of freedom, the power of the stallion under him, the strides lengthening into a run faster than any pounding gallop, as if Rob Roi had made an ally of the wind, or was born of it. The lochan blurred past on his left, hard as black glass and it seemed like a hole punched in Time, from which something peered, watching. Marcus leaned low over the great neck and let Rob Roi run.  
  
And then, in no time at all, it seemed, they were drawing near the far end, where that tall menhir rose. Marcus drew gently on the reins, and felt the stallion’s response, slowing to a gallop, a floating canter. They passed the standing stone and Marcus was aware of a figure stepping from its shadow; a walker, he guessed, who had seen Rob Roi’s headlong run and decided to step aside. As the stallion slowed, he turned to call an explanation and apology.  
  
The man was tall, slim, dressed in walking gear, carrying a backpack. The wind ruffled his thick black hair. His eyes were blue as the stained glass in a church. He smiled, but cautiously, showing even white teeth.  
‘Marcus,’ Leon said.  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Fellowship of the Ring.


	5. ~ The Widening Gyre ~

  
  
  


**~ The Widening Gyre ~**

~ Howard had admitted to holding no religious faith (although his belief in what was known as ‘high strangeness’ had certainly expanded during his tenure of the department), and his funeral service reflected this. His daughter, a lean, well-dressed woman with the tan of weathering, spoke in a pleasant voice although reading from a script. She had been young when her parents divorced and it was clear from her rather monotone delivery and expression that she had not known her father well. She looked confident, groomed and as approachable as a thorn hedge.

It was a simple cremation; no traditional hymns were sung; only one of Howard’s favourite musical tracks playing. When the curtains were closed over the coffin, and the mourners turned to exit and view the flowers — a large and beautiful display chiefly from his those he worked with — Charlie joined Vanimórë. There was a certain redness about her eyes but she tucked a handkerchief into her handbag with a resolute sniff.

‘I hate this morbid shit,’ she pronounced, but under her breath.

Vanimórë tended to agree, although he could see that for some people ‘paying their respects’ was important and, compared to the great tombs he had seen on Númenor, this kind of ceremony was the merest acknowledgement of a life lived and ended.

‘The department will be going shortly,’ she said. ‘No point in hanging around. And she,’ she flicked a look at Howard’s daughter, ‘is flying out this evening.’

‘Yes,’ Vanimórë murmured. ‘Is all in place?’

‘Of course,’ Charlie was impatient. ‘Are you coming to the wake, or whatever the hell we’re calling it these days?’

Vanimórë had hired a fleet of limousines to collect the mourners and take them to the Hilton. He had booked one of the restaurants for the afternoon.

‘I will try to drop in, later,’ he said. His eyes, shielded by sunglasses, traced across the gathering until they intercepted a pair starring back at him. Sober charcoal-coloured suit and low-heeled pumps, a wild mass of spiralling black curls and eyes green as a cat’s against the rich darkness of her skin. The woman was looking at him as if she could see beyond the black lenses.

With a word to Charlie, he moved away through the guests toward the car park. Footsteps echoed after his own.  
‘Mr Steele?’

He turned at his Bentley.

‘Mr Steele,’ the young woman pursued. ‘I’m Martha Painswick. I work in the department.’*

He extended his hand. ‘How do you do, Ms. Painswick.’ Her clasp was firm and brief. She wore a Tree of Life pendant at her throat, silver over turquoise, and a jade ring, bright as her eyes, circled one finger.

She shifted her feet. ‘How do you do? Mr. Steele, can I talk to you?’

‘Of course. Are you going on to the Hilton, or can I drop you somewhere?’ He indicated the car.

‘I’m going there,’ she nodded and slipped into the passenger sear, smoothing her skirt.

She said nothing until the car had pulled out, casting glances at his face until he said, smiling a little: ‘What?’

‘You’re real, then.’ She returned the smile engagingly. ‘Oh, I know the department exists at least partly because of you, but —‘ She shrugged.

‘You wanted to speak to me of Howard?’

‘Yes.’ She straightened. ‘I was worried about Howard. He wasn’t...’ her hands rose, sketched the air. ‘I _knew_ there was something on his mind after he came back from Norfolk.’ She sank back into the seat with a frustrated sigh. ‘I should have reached out, alerted someone but who’d listen?’

‘I would have.’

‘Yes, well, I never had access to your records or your phone,’ Martha pointed out as if it was quite his fault and he should take the blame for that oversight. ‘ _Something_ was bothering him. He was almost nervous, jumpy, too quiet. I wish...’

‘So do I wish. His daughter has been compromised too.’

She slewed around in the seat, those enormous green eyes narrowed. ‘I _knew_ there was something about her! Oh, I know Howard hasn’t seen her much in the last twenty years, but even with that, there’s something too cold about her.’

‘She could have been approached any time in the last decade,’ Vanimórë said. ‘It would be easy; she travels.’

‘How do you _know_ she’s been comprised?’ Martha demanded.

‘When one has been in contact with Sauron, something lingers,’ he said simply. ‘And I made the mistake before of accepting that the departmental screen missed nothing. I will not make that mistake again.’

‘Leon St. Cloud.’

Pointless to say that Vanya had hidden Leon; still he should have felt _something._ He let the silence stretch.

‘So,’ Martha said at length. ‘What will we — the Department — do about her?’

‘I do not think she is important, Martha. She has played her part in this, and when Sauron has no more need of a servant, he makes that plain, shall we say.’ At her doubtful expression. ‘Of course she will be monitored. I am just sick at heart that Howard should have been broken for one who cared nothing for him.’

‘So am I.’ Then: ‘ _Was_ it natural, his death?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Not now,’ she agreed, and sat back again, but it seemed that Martha Painswick was not someone who could sit still for long; she vibrated with a kind of intelligent nervousness energy. Her head turned to him.  
‘Don’t people _notice_ how different you are?’ she asked. ‘They don’t do they? I was watching. They see you at first and stare, and then it’s as if they forget, are only aware of you peripherally.’

‘People notice surprisingly little,’ he replied. ‘Their minds are too full of their own concerns, and it is easy to persuade them to forget what they saw.’

‘Howard?’ she questioned.

‘No, and not Charlie either, but it is necessary that some people _do_ believe their eyes.’ He smiled faintly. ‘I am sure Howard would have preferred to forget, however.’

‘ _I_ don’t want to be made to forget,’ Martha told him firmly. ‘And, come to think of it, you’re not making me, are you?’

‘I told Charlie we need you, and people like you.’

‘Good,’ she said as if she expected it. ‘But I still don’t see how people are _that_ blind. Look, you clearly never shave, never have — your skin’s as soft as a baby’s bum — with hair that colour and skin that pale you should have a shadow of stubble by now.’ She ticked the points off on her slim fingers. ‘No hair on your arms, either.’ He had taken off his jacket and rolled his shirtsleeves up. ‘Tattoos...‘ She was momentarily diverted. ‘What do they signify?’

‘Ah...youthful rebellion.’

‘Really?’ Martha grinned. ‘How very _human_!’ Vanimórë laughed out, and she went on: ‘I haven’t seen your eyes, but I know you wear contact lenses, so there’s something about them that you _need_ to hide. As for the rest, it’s just in the way you move, your presence—‘

‘It is not easy living among Mortals,’ Vanimórë said, with a twist of his mouth, laughter fading. ‘Not at all. No-one should need to hide what that are. So, Martha, how would a promotion suit you? I need an assistant to Charlie who balances her pragmatism, and Peter Harris is coming up to his retirement. He was not a field operative and not even much of an assistant; Howard kept a great deal from him. But it is possible _you_ may be required for some fieldwork at times. I think Harris will take his retirement early — with a golden handshake of course. Howard’s death has shaken him.’

Martha clasped her hands, almost bounced in the seat. ‘Oh, ye-es!’ She gave a little victory punch, then composed herself. ‘But there’s a condition.’

‘I _like_ you, Martha Painswick,’ Vanimórë said, amused. ‘What is the condition?’

‘As you said, Peter Harris wasn’t much of an assistant, more like a confidential secretary, and yes, Howard kept a lot from him. But _I_ want to know; I don’t want Charlie deciding everything’s on a need-to-know basis with me. It’s _all_ need to know as far as I’m concerned.’

‘I can just imagine her reaction,’ Vanimórë murmured, enjoying the conversation tremendously.

Martha smiled widely. ‘So can I. And another thing: I _do_ want to know how to contact you.’ Her voice became serious. ‘It may be important.’

He glanced at her. ‘Very well, although sometimes, I am not contactable.’ And felt, rather than saw, her eyes narrow, the questions behind them.  
‘Tomorrow,’ he forestalled her. ‘Tomorrow morning I will have you and Charlie come to the hotel for a meeting, and we will bring you up to speed. I will ensure she gives you all the passwords to certain files. There is much Howard did not know,’ he added. ‘And more I will not tell. But you will have access to everything available. Agreed?’

After a moment she nodded. ‘Agreed.’

He pulled up at a set of traffic lights. ‘You are Wiccan,’ he stated. ‘I studied your file.’

‘That’s right,’ she returned levelly. ‘And I assume from your lack of reaction and er...who you are, that’s not a problem with you?’

He stifled a laugh. ‘Not in the least. But I think you ought to meet my sister, one day. You would like her, and I am quite sure that she would like you.’

‘You have a sister?’ Surprise stretched her voice high, for it was knowledge that only the head of the department was privy to.

‘She is my twin.’ The Bentley purred forward again.

‘A sister,’ Martha mused. ‘Where is she? I mean,’ she elaborated. ‘Is she here in this world?’

‘Knowing her as I do, she could be anywhere, but I hope she is in Scotland at the moment. You,’ he added. ‘Probably know her by the name Vanya Tierra, Marcus St. Cloud’s foster mother.’

OooOooO

~ A thunderbolt in his chest, a loss of breath, a surge of some emotion inexplicable and powerful as forgotten grief, and then Marcus said, ‘You were dead.’

A shadow blew across Leon’s face, dark as the cloud shadows over the narrow loch.  
‘Yes,’ he confirmed. ‘I was.’

‘Sauron brought you back.’

‘Yes.’

‘For what?’ Rob Roi stamped, snorted, and Leon’s eyes moved to him. They were the colour of Marcus’ own, indigo shading into royal purple. Fearlessly, he reached out a hand and spoke, not in English but the Black Speech of Mordor, of Angband, of Utumno before them, and not mangled by the deformed jaws and thick tongues of orcs, but elegant and dark, cruel as a poisoned blade.

The stallion’s ears flicked forward, muscles quivering, and stretched out his neck, leaned toward words that were like a spell: ‘Ah, my beauty, dost thou remember the autumn winds blowing across the Rhûn, harrying the yellowing birch leaves and bringing the scent of winter — and the winds, dry as salt, from the Harad desert when the trumpets called to battle and the sun in the sky like a torch, burning, the enemy going down between thy hooves and my sword. There were nights when the stars blazed like the eyes of a million gods and the campfires sprang up to welcome them, when thou didn’t rest as the warriors drank and danced. Remember thou the the heat of mating, siring sons and daughters as great hearted as thee, but not quite, never quite — for there was none like thee, Seran.’

Marcus pulled himself from the words, the sensations that twisted like heated wire through his blood, and said harshly: ‘Rob Roy is not Seran,’

‘Not in the flesh, perhaps, but in the blood,’ Leon said. ‘All these long millennium, who could now tell?’ But he dropped his hand.

‘Why are you here?’ Marcus dismounted. They stood facing each other. _Identical._

‘We are the same,’ Leon said. ‘Our father’s son. And both of us — again — immortal.‘

‘No,’ Marcus refuted. ‘I am more _his_ than Sauron’s.’

Leon flashed a smile. ‘And whose son is he, brother-mine?’

‘Not one defined by his father, as we were,’ Marcus slammed back.

‘Was he not? I wonder. I have dreamed — have you? — since coming back. Would he have become what he is were he not Mairon’s son?’ _Mairon_ , Marcus thought, not Sauron. ‘Or would he never have been so _refined._ Forged as a sword is forged.’ The words echoed in Marcus’ mind like sea-surf in a cave and shame flooded him. _He_ (or they) had not been so forged. They had been defective.

‘I remember well — as you should — that he _despised_ us.’ Marcus had the sudden, disorientating feeling that he was talking to _himself_ , a part of him that he had loathed, the fool who had _loved_ Sauron, bowed to his every whim and command, whom had not possessed the guts to resist, to _fight._  
‘We obeyed his every order, warred for him, killed for him, lay down for him, accepted his torments. We died still believing in him, and for that he _despised_ us.’ He took one step forward, struck Leon across the face. Thick, shining hair swirled and sank. ‘Wake up! He brought you back for a _reason_ , not from any fatherly affection!’

Leon straightened. He did not deign to raise a hand to his face.  
‘Of course,’ he agreed. ‘You’re right. Do you imagine I _care_?’ he cried and his voice rang under the sky, across the Blackwater. ‘I am _myself_ again, and so,’ he added more quietly, ‘Are _you_. The ichor of gods runs in our veins.’ His white smile was brilliant. ‘The time is coming to leave this world; the doorways are opening. You feel it yourself don’t you?’ He gestured to the inimical black loch. ‘Time enough, once we leave, to let the game play out.’

‘It is no game,’ Marcus flashed. ‘And if it were, you think your _master_ , your father will win it? He will be ranged against far greater powers —‘

Leon laughed, tilted his head. Something almost like love warmed his eyes.  
‘You really ought to speak to Vanimórë. In any reality, our father has the most powerful protector of all, one that no Power can hope to stand against. Don’t you know, don’t you _see_?’ His hand came up, caught Marcus’ face in strong fingers. ‘Don’t you see?’ he asked again. ‘Vanimórë— the _Prime_ Vanimórë shall we say — could have reached out from beyond the world to destroy our father any time he pleased. He could do it to the Sauron of that ancient universe if he wished. Do you not wonder why he never has?’ His eyes challenged, half-mocking, half affectionate. ‘He knows, if he does not admit it, that he _needed_ his father to become what he did. He sharpened himself on the cruelty of his life. He used it, just as he used himself.’

Marcus gripped his brother’s wrist, removed his hand. He felt Leon’s pulse jumping under his finger’s, deep and rapid.  
‘So you think he will never kill Sauron.’ He said the name deliberately and was rewarded by lights of anger in eyes the twin to his own. ‘Nor allow anyone else to.’

‘He will not,’ Marcus said.

‘Don’t get carried away with that idea. He is not what _we_ were.’ Contemptuously. ‘He might have wanted love, but he did not fawn at his father’s feet like a hound that will crawl back to the master who kicks him. We are the part of him that _might_ have done so. If he keeps Sauron alive it is for his own purposes and I wouldn’t bank on him continuing to do so.’

Leon held up his trapped hand. ‘I would,’ he said with such conviction Marcus let him go.  
‘Why are you so _bloody_ certain?’ he demanded. What did Leon know that he did not, or what lies had Sauron poured into his ears? But the thick black lashes went down like a veil and when they came up, nothing showed in the eyes.  
‘Ask Vanimórë.’

‘And what?’ Marcus pursued. ‘So you think Sauron will be kept alive, protected. So you will hold onto his arm in the hope you, his son, be overlooked? I wouldn’t bank on that, either.’ He laid a hand palm flat on his brother’s chest. ‘Over there, in that world, I will be alone, if I survive. That is a chance I will take. I do not belong here. But the Elves bear enmity to Sauron that goes back into ancient times. Even if he is allowed to live, where will he go? What will he do? What will _you_ do?’

Leon pressed against his hand. ‘What does he do now, that other one, Vanimórë’s father? Dagor Dagorath will come to this world as it did in the old universe. And then...? It is all to play for Marcus St. Cloud, Vanimórë-that-was. There will always be other worlds. Come with us. You think to be alone? You don’t have to be.’

‘I will never go back to him,’ Marcus said flat as beaten iron. ‘And neither would you, had you been raised as I was. Why don’t you _you_ come with _us_.’

A riffle of wind passed between them. Leon’s face was as blank as rain-washed marble.  
‘I told Vanimórë it would have been a hard choice,’ he said softly. ‘That was true. I _could_ have served him. I directed half my _life_ toward meeting him. Do you think I don’t _see_ that quality in him which made men fight to serve under him for thousands of years, to give their lives for him? But in the end, Marcus, my brother, it impinges on my honour. I am sworn to my father. In the old world, and in this one.’

‘Honour, for one who has no honour.’

‘Yes.’ The briefest of smiles, with sadness at the edges. ‘Exactly that.’

‘And I am sworn to Vanimórë, by the gift of his blood.’

‘And so never the twain shall meet?’ Leon murmured. ‘Or should I say, never the _twins_? But we _are_ blood.’ He circled Marcus’ hand with his wrist, ran it up his arm, to his throat. Marcus felt his own blood pulsing like a hammer-stroke under the touch, the burn in his cheeks. ‘Blood and bone and marrow. Two halves of something that was once whole, and is now ripped apart. Half a life, for for both of us, and always something _missing_. You feel it, Marcus, Lord Vale of St. Cloud. And what title is that to one who has been Mordor’s Commander of Armies, and the son of Mairon? It is _nothing_. I might have been you, and you might have been me. Who is to say you would not have made _my_ choice had you lived my life? You talk of _blood_. What blood is closer than our, yours and mine?’

Marcus felt his heart strain like Rob Roi pulling at the bit, a longing for freedom, but what he yearned for was _oneness_ , _wholeness._ Now that his eyes automatically stripped glamour, he had discarded Leon’s everyday appearance for what he _was_ , or had been once. What they both were. That storm of jet hair falling from a high-bound tail, black gear, swords, the only touch of colour to him was the rose of that modelled mouth and the blaze of the imperial-purple eyes. Was that how Leon saw him, he wondered? A reflection in a mirror.

_But the mirror crack’d..._

And between them, a fault line ripped that could cleave the very world.

‘Did he send you?’ he asked, his breath like fire in his throat, like ice. ‘ _Did he_?’

‘No,’ Leon said, his eyes unwavering and Marcus knew it for truth. ‘I will not say he would not have sanctioned it, but no. I came myself. I came for _you,_ my brother. You are the heartbeat within my blood.’

Both of them moved as if spurred, surged into a kiss that forked white-black from head to heels, that clawed his skin and plunged below, into his veins, his cells. Everything within him lit and _blazed_. The world vanished into a furnace of rising lust. It was a warrior’s kiss before battle, a salute to an enemy, and more than that, a clash of equal, of opposite, of desperation. And then, something rose up from his core, something hard as the foundations of Barad-dûr, and he knew it for the blood gifted to him, for Vanimöré’s ruthless and iron will that would reject softness and pity for himself again and again. With a groan that came from his heart, he pushed Leon away.

For heartbeats they faced one another panting, flushed, fire-hot skin. Then Leon raised his hand in the ancient salute he — they — had given their father so long ago.  
‘It is not over,’ he said. ‘Nothing is ended.’

He turned away, the horsetail of hair swinging, and the air around him bent and quivered like heat haze. The tall menhir shimmered within it, suddenly nebulous. Leon alone looked real, tall and straight against the light. Then he stepped into the portal, and was gone.

OooOooO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Martha Painswick is Narya_Flame’s character from _A Question of Perspective_.  
>   
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/19834105  
>   
> She is making an appearance with Narya’s permission. Thank you :)


	6. ~ Fire to Burn Clean ~

  
  


**~ Fire to Burn Clean ~**

~ It was not unusual for Mairon to find his servants when they were already sunk in wickedness. Such a one had been Malantur, who became the Mouth. Another was Howard’s daughter, Kristi.

By the time he approached her she had already earned a lifetime prison sentence or, in some places, the death penalty. She was, as they said, living on borrowed time. Despite her thickly stamped passport, her global travels, her lack of a fixed abode, sooner or later the trail of torture and death would lead back to her. Mairon made that perfectly plain but knew that he need not have. She was more than willing to follow him; she had, she said, been waiting for him all her life. For her temerity alone, she must die.

Kristi’s tastes, born out of hating her father for being a workaholic, loathing her mother for her self-obsession would, with a consenting partner, have raised only the most puritanical of eyebrows. But Kristi had long ago discovered that she did not want consenting partners. She wanted to hurt, not a game with safe-words and boundaries. She enjoyed inflicting pain, and she discovered that murder was the greatest pleasure.

It was fortunate chance that had introduced her to the dark world she liked to inhabit, one kept carefully separate from her profession but facilitated by it. One of her first trips had taken her to a far-off country where people were bought and sold and, if they went missing, enough money would sweep the matter under the carpet. Kristi might hate her father, but accepted the money he sent her. She did not want to work but her allowance was settled on the understanding she do _something_. It infuriated her; her mother had never done anything but drive off for beauty treatments and spa days, or a morning shopping and lunch with friends. Perhaps that was _why_ her father wanted her to pursue a career, but it seemed unfair.

Kristi had a certain artistic flair and a love of travel; strings were pulled, and she ended up working for Nat. Geo. At least she could thank her father for that and was scrupulous in maintaining some sort of distant relationship; cool though it was. At least he seemed to realise that he deserved her dislike and did not try to press her. Sometimes she was amused at the thought of where his very generous monthly payment actually went.

The seeds had been sewn young. Kristi had been fascinated with books written about the serial killer couple Fred and Rose West, especially the man’s assertion that his wife liked to use strap-on’s, huge, and studded, on their victims. When Kristi first tried it, and on a man, she experienced the most shattering orgasm of her life and when she hurt her sex partner the pleasure mounted. Despising men as she did, yet she was still sexually attracted to them (if attraction meant domination and death). In certain counties, young men were cheap enough.

She glanced at her watch. There were five hours until her flight and she meant to make the most of them. Her presence at the funeral had been necessary, but she declined the invitation to the Hilton (though she would have liked to see the mysterious Lucien Steele). Apparently, he had been at the funeral but although she vaguely recalled a tall, suited man, she could not bring him to mind. It rankled that he had not introduced himself. Being Howard’s daughter was worthy of some acknowledgement, surely. But no matter. Who was Lucien Steele in comparison with the one she served?

She hummed as she slid into underwear and house-robe, smiling. There was every reason to smile; Mr. May had promised her a special reward for her part in recent events.

Closing the blinds on the heavy, thundery afternoon, she lit a stick of incense and sat down, closing her eyes, bringing May’s face to mind...  
For years she had wandered in and out of spiritual groups but none worked for her...until she met Arthur May.

He did not tell her who he was; such information was not freely given, he admonished her, but she _knew._  
Lucifer, for who else would he be, so fair, so cold, so _dark_?

He was the only man (through no man at all) she had ever respected, the only man she would ever give herself to. She dreamed of the consummation often, of the time she would be his eternal dark bride. For she was different to these others who worshipped the old gods; the blood of the divine flowed in her too; she had always felt it. And she would not worship; turning her nose up at those who did. She _required_ worship. Her path was different. Let others call themselves spouse, child, sister of a god. She was far more. Was it not proved? Lucifer himself had stretched out his hand to her.  
  
Her gratitude flowed forth in words more suited to Angband’s orc dens than the exclusive flat ‘Mr. May’ had permitted her to use. For that alone she thanked him; she could not have indulged her appetites in any hotel.  
  
After a few moments she rose, went into the bedroom and unlocked the suitcase that went everywhere with her.  
  
The strap-on she chose was enormous, studded. She felt herself, even now, becoming aroused at the thought of pounding into the man sent to her, ripping tender flesh, hearing him scream. (Such a sweet sound!) He would be bound of course; no point in taking chances; he would beg, he would writhe, and be unable to fight free. And later, later...when he was reduced to a weeping, bloody _thing_ , she would kill him, offering the blood to her master.  
  
The phone rang. She answered it, smiling.  
  
‘A delivery from Arcadia will be with you in half an hour,’ his smooth voice said, and then he disconnected. Kristi shuddered pleasurably and, to the empty room, said, ‘Thank you. Thank you.’ She had asked for a real man this time, not a boy; young, but older than the teenagers who were easily sold or wandered into the sex trade. In the past, when visiting the UK, her contact had been one Ronnie Trent, apparently now in a secure prison hospital and completely crazy. Unfortunate, Mr. May had said with, she could have sworn, amusement in his voice.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

~ Leon ran the knot up his tie, straightened it, then passed a comb through his hair. In the RAF he had, of course, worn it short but since then it had grown to this length and the thick, glossy fall fell back from the teeth of the comb.

He frowned at his reflection. He had seen Marcus as he (they) had once been — as Vanimórë: hair pluming from that high tail to his knees, but he could only see himself as Leon St. Cloud. Why, he wondered, angrily; was there some kind of test he had not yet passed?

Mairon had told him, soon after he woke from death, what had happened to Marcus and Leon’s first emotion had been relief. _Now we are both the same._ But it was Vanimórë who had granted Marcus his blood. Perhaps that was the difference. And it _ached_ within Leon like a wound. Immortal he was, but he could see little difference to his appearance, save the darkening of his blue eyes toward indigo purple. He felt an impulse to reach out to Marcus mind-to-mind, knew he could, but must not. Like everything else in his life, his mind was not his own.

Buttoning up his suit jacket, he shot his arms to settle the cuffs and left the bedroom.

Mairon was waiting for him in the lounge. They had left Woodsend yesterday and taken a suite at the Lanesborough. For two nights only, his father said. After, they would travel up to Scotland.

Mairon raised his eyes, running them up and down Leon, as if appraising a gem. He nodded.  
‘Very nice. You know how to dress.’

‘I should hope so,’ Leon replied, inflexionless.

‘Yes, the benefits of an aristocratic upbringing,’ Mairon smiled. ‘Not quite a prince, but well enough.’

Leon cast a cold inner eye back at his upbringing and smothered a bitter laugh.

‘So, you know what to do,’ his father said.

In this world, Leon’s first mission for Mairon had taken years: to become employed by the DDE and meet the elusive Lucien Steele. His second would take mere hours — and was to be raped by the woman born Kristie Wainwright and now calling herself Kristi Johns.

‘The Department will be watching her and her movements,’ he said. ‘You know this.’

‘Of course. If you do not kill her Vanimórë or one of his associates will, I have no doubt. What is it? Are you thinking they might be laying in wait to _kidnap_ you?’ His eyes widened in mockery.

Leon crushed the fleeting, instinctive thought _I wish they would._  
‘Shall I not simply kill her, my Lord?’

‘Ah, it is her you object to?’

‘It is allowing her to rape me I object to.’ Tartly. ‘She is a murderer, you say, and deserves no mercy. Did you supply her—‘ The flashing, icy glance cut him off.

‘But how sordid. Naturally not. She has her own contacts. And it will not be the first time you have been raped. Perhaps the first in this world, but you will survive. And you are not the first or last to have to bear it uncomplaining.’ There was a thin, bitter edge of memory to the words.

‘Her mind alone stinks of orc.’ It was a scent Leon knew well, moral corruption layered on top of the reek of unwashed bodies, blood, offal, dried excrement. No amount of bathing or perfume could cover it, for it was something in the blood. An orc den could be smelt from leagues away, ammoniac and nauseating. The men who pursued Samael had carried the same stench. Even when young, long before he discovered who he was, Leon had wondered that others did not seem to be able to smell it. Now, he could do more than that: he could _feel_ the taint.

His father shrugged. ‘Of course. There are many with orc blood in this world and a few with Elven blood. Kristi Johns has no more to offer us and she has ambitions.’

‘Ambitions?’

‘She believes I might take her as my queen,’ Mairon said dryly. ‘She believes she is a goddess.‘

Despite his mood, Leon laughed. ‘Does she now? What kind of goddess? Which one?’

‘Ah, just one she has made up in her head, for she carries aspects of many, of course.’ The shared enjoyment of this absurdity, the quick flash of understanding between them, took Leon back thousands of years. It was moments like this — a meeting of minds — that bound him to Mairon more surely than any threat or deliberate act of cruelty.

‘Of course,’ he echoed.

And she has always wanted to rape an Elf.’

‘I see.’ The amusement drained away.

‘Even glamoured you look like one.’ His smile flashed, taunting and irresistible. ‘Can you see yourself without it, now? Could you see your brother as he truly is?’

Leon’s throat dried. ‘I see him as he is.’ With those words he admitted his visit to Scotland, not that he believed he could hide it. ‘No, I do not see myself in the same way.’

‘I wonder why?’ his father mused.

‘And Kristi,’ Leon attempted to move the conversation away from that treacherous ground. ‘She does not know who you really are?’

‘You think I would tell her? She believes I am Lucifer.’

‘Well,’ Leon said dryly, feeling he had earned it. ‘She is not so far wrong, is she?’

‘No, that would be Melkor,’ Mairon said with an unexpected gleam of drollery. ‘Never mind what she believes. It hardly matters. But I promised her a reward for her panicked, pleading telephone call to her father. She was very convincing. And she needs to be killed.’ He dismissed her with a flick of one hand, then rose from his seat and came to Leon, seizing his hair in one hand. Leon’s neck arched back, breath coming short. Once, he would have surrendered expecting — hoping for — sex, the terrible, glorious convulsion of being used. He could not help but cringe inwardly at what he had been, but why this change?

‘I know what you want,’ Mairon murmured, that small, cold smile on his mouth. ‘I can smell him on you, even after a shower and through your own scent. Sandalwood and incense.’ He breathed in deeply, as if savouring. ‘A soul ripped apart and reborn as twins. Fascinating. Let us hope he is equally drawn to you. But I did not command that you meet him, and you must accept the punishment, no? Now, Kristi Johns wants a man, not a boy, which is all she can usually get except drug addicts, and she has a hatred of your class. You will be everything she has hoped for. Oh, and ensure that she knows she dies by my order.’ He tightened his hold on Leon’s hair for a moment, then released him. Aroused, despite his defiance, Leon straightened.  
‘For blood and honour, then, my Lord,’ he said with cold formality. ‘And the body?’

‘Will be dealt with. Return here immediately after.’

OooOooO

The exclusive street seemed to slumber in the still, humid afternoon. Dark clouds drifted across the sky, breaking now and then to allow shafts of sunlight to pour down.

Leon sat in his car for several minutes. He had no doubt the DDE would be observing, perhaps from a house or one of the parked vehicles that lined the road. He wondered if Marcus would do this, were it necessary, and the answer was _Yes._

He clasped his hands on the steering wheel, leaned his head against them.  
To seek out his twin had been a mistake, but he could no more have helped it than the tide could help responding to the moon.  
_We were one._  
Unlike Marcus, he had known he had a brother, but Mairon had admitted, with a little twist of annoyance, that he could not trace the elusive lost twin. Now, Marcus was unveiled, was real, not merely an idea, an unfocused longing, and Leon’s soul had fixed upon him.

 _Just go._ He imagined, fiercely, starting the car and driving away, heading north, finding Marcus again and then...let them just _go_ — To be free, _to be free_! To serve no-one,to be bound to nothing but one another; free to live their own lives. Not here, not this world. They could cross through one of the Portals, find a different Middle-earth...

A self-mocking laugh shook him. He straightened, smiling grimly. In that old life he had never wished to leave his father, nor even considered it. Before his death here, it had not crossed his mind to want to be free. Yet, in the cellar of Rochford Manor, his father had left him to die in agony; it was Vanimórë who had given him the release of death — but Mairon who brought him back. Had this internal change come about because he saw how little he was worth, something expendable, no more valuable to his father than Thuringwethil or an orc-captain?

His mouth thinned. The fact was, despite everything, habit and blood were too ingrained; he still loved and honoured his father, wanted to prove himself worthy. But...he had seen Marcus; now he was poised between two points of power and tormented by both.

He got out of the car, slamming the door with unnecessary force, Enough. Enough of this. He had a mission to fulfil. Shaking himself, priming as for battle, he strode quickly along the sleepy street and up the steps of the house, pressed the button for Flat 9.

A click, and a woman’s voice: ‘Yes?’

‘Delivery from Arcadia.’ He set his teeth.

Another click and the door opened. He went through the foyer, took the stairs to the third floor. Her voice came through the flat’s intercom, this time arch, flirtatious: ‘And what’s the magic word?’

‘I have no idea,’ he snapped. ‘But you know where I am from, or shall I go back and tell _him_ you’ve changed your mind?’

Kristi opened the door.

Mairon had shown Leon a picture of the woman. At first sight she seemed personable enough save for a certain distasteful expression in her eyes and the petulant downturn of the mouth. Leon had been glad she looked nothing like Howard. He had been fond of the man and would have been fonder still had he not discovered whom he truly was.  
Kristi’s short, spiky hair and dark eyes did not come from Howard, and she had taken the surname Johns after her mother remarried. Physically, there was nothing to connect them as father and daughter. Howard had been the epitome of ‘dapper’; Kristi was angular and tall.

Howard had never said much about his daughter but Leon knew he had tried to keep in contact with her and regretted not spending time with her when she was young. He must have loved her (or at least believed it his duty to love her) to break when she was threatened. What a bloody waste. No, killing her would cause him no heartburnings. But then, killing never had.

She gestured him into the room, her eyes running over him in a manner that raised his hackles.  
‘Well, I must thank Mr. May,’ she drawled, and gestured to a drink’s cabinet. He nodded curtly, pouring himself Tanqueray gin and tonic, adding ice cubes. Over the rim of the glass, he watched her, and was struck by a memory that he knew was not his own, yet flared vivid as a blood splash across his mind: Vanimórë, in that old universe, and a woman who had used and deceived him. But Leon saw the beautiful face set upon the neck and body of a bloated spider-thing, huge and ravenous. _Shard of Ungoliant._

Kristi was saying something. Fighting down the chill of horror, he tried to focus.  
‘...Mr. May give you any instructions?’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘Would he? My orders are simply to put myself in your hands for a couple of hours.’

Her smile was a shocking copy of the spider’s. ‘Good. Good. So let’s get down to it. I’m catching a flight this evening.’

She untied her house-robe, let it drop to the floor, eying him all the while. Underneath she wore a mesh body-stocking, crotchless and ending under her breasts. She was gaunt, and the expression on her face gave her the look of a permanently hungry predator. Teetering heels boosted her height, but still she did not look him eye-to-eye.

‘Yes, he has really excelled himself. Do you _work_ for him?’ Sneering. Insulting. ‘Didn’t think you guys knew _how_ to work. That cut-glass voice,’ she mimicked his accent badly. ‘That cut-glass face. Mmm. And those clothes.’ Something curdled in her eyes, something bitter, rancid. She tottered out of the room and returned in a moment holding a pair of scissors. Leon’s eyes narrowed, preparing to disarm her, but she only drew out his tie with her free hand, then snipped it in half. Her lips were pressed together in a petulant pout as she discarded it, then sliced into his lapels, then the hem. It was a bizarre display of pettiness; he had little doubt that she would have liked to take the blades to his face.  
He stood still as she cut the jacket off him, silently, angrily, then pulled the remainder from and flung the ruin away. She placed the scissors on a side table and regarded him with an odd satisfaction.  
‘Are you going to be as good without your fucking clothes, I wonder?’ Then, abruptly, the pout vanished. She crossed to the couch, sat down with her legs spread.  
‘We’ll see shall we? Well, go to it, boy.’ Her lips parted, and her teeth were slightly stained, sharp. He was reminded of an orc’s mouth. The words ‘boy’ sounded like a slave-owner and perhaps that was how she saw herself. He imagined how she must be in those faraway lands having bought, body and soul, the youngsters she violated and murdered. ‘Kneel down.’

So, not only must he be raped, but he must service her too. He gulped a mouthful of gin and set it aside, hoping it would partially numb his tastebuds. Again he thought of Marcus, of Vanimórë then, grimly, went down on his knees.

She grasped his head, holding it. The orc stench rose about him as if it were being pressed from her pores, and he wanted to gag on the taste of her. She smelt as if she rarely bathed and the perfume she had liberally sprayed on did not mitigate the unclean reek. He closed his eyes as she jerked, grunted like an animal. Her nails dug into his scalp as she orgasmed.

 _That was her aperitif, I suppose_ , he thought sourly, rising as she slumped back, mouth gaping wide. He wiped his lips fastidiously, took another drink of the gin before she sat up. Her eyes looked black as crude oil.

‘Get in the bedroom,’ she panted. ‘Take off your clothes.’

He laid them aside neatly on a chair, glancing at the room with contempt. There was a mirror over the huge circular bed, mirrors to each side. _Tacky._ But there was a darker purpose to the room. He wondered how many had been raped in this tasteless ode to 70’s porn films, and not just by Kristi. The paraphernalia of bondage had been set out, ropes, a riding crop, ball-gags.

She came up behind him, her hands running over his body; they were sweaty and dragged unpleasantly against his skin. Her nails dug into his rear, scraped.  
‘Nice little arse. On the bed. Hands and knees.’ Her voice sounded thick as a drunkard’s now, but it was not alcohol but the anticipation of rape and murder that was her drug of choice.

In the mirror he saw her fumble impatiently with the strap-on, and froze, bile rising in his throat. It was huge, studded with rubber nubs, something made not for pleasure — or if so, only her own — but for pain. The bed gave under her weight, and a finger coated with lubricant pressed against his anus.

‘Tight little hole,’ she crooned. ‘I’ll need a bit of help getting in there.’ She chuckled, an ugly sound of predation, then rose again and methodically bound his wrists and ankles. He clenched them into fists, fighting the desire to break free, turn and just kill her. _Orders. Punishment._ He breathed deeply.  
She did not use the ball-gag, possibly she preferred to hear her victims scream. She did pick up the riding crop.

The mattress depressed again and a hardness pressed against his opening, then pushed in. The end of the crop. Her breath came in excited gasps.

It had been another life since he was breached and, thus far, Sauron had not called him to his bed. His sexual experience had been remarkably abstemious in this world of his rebirth. People, even his uncle, who could hardly comment, had called him _too choosy_ , and they were correct. He was.

His eyes slammed shut as the crop withdrew and then...

Pain ripped through him like a knife blade. He saw Kristi behind him, the vicious and vacuous gluttony of her face that sloughed away humanity, so that she was an orc indeed, grinning, pumping.

A red veil, edged with screaming white, fell over his eyes, then tore apart in a burst of agony. He saw...Vanimórë’s face, patient with the terrible endurance of rape, white and furious and agonised. He saw Marcus suddenly turn his head, eyes widening in horror, his mouth shaping Leon’s name. Then Kristi, the room, all dissolved into Angband. He was shackled with Melkor giant upon him, within him, feeling his passage slick with blood.

From far away, he heard Kristi grunting with effort, then the spill of orc-filth from her mouth: ‘ _Fuck, fuck, fuck_!’ He felt the flaying of her nails on his skin. _Ah, gods_. He strained against the ropes as she pounded into him — or tried to; there was not enough lubricant, and she was not strong enough and was lodged in him, jerking her hips as she hunted another orgasm, abrading the delicate inner membrane.

An explosion in his head like fire. The ropes snapped. He heard her moans of pleasure choke off and rise into a high-pitched yell. Opening his eyes, he saw the room filled with a blaze of sunlight, its touch hot upon his head. In the facing mirror his own reflection stared back at him, a flood of black hair disarrayed on the bed, eyes flashing lambent violet with rage and pain — and the iron promise of revenge. For the barest moment he realised that the pain had released something in him as his return from death had not. _I can see myself._

Wedged in him, Kristi screamed hoarsely. She was a dark shape against the sun-glare.

Coldagnir stepped out of the light. Leon saw him as he was — the nuclear fusion of the sun itself, saw too, that Coldagnir was holding it, containing it. Even so, little spot-fires sprang up. Kristi yelled, lunged back and, at last, freed the strap-on. Leon shut the cry behind his teeth and hissed out the pain.

‘You know that tired old saying about fire?’ Coldagnir’s voice came out of the inferno like the mellow gold of aged whiskey. Leon saw huge triple wings stream out, far beyond the enclosing walls, smelt the waft of cinnamon-and-spice. Then Coldagnir’s hands clamped each side of the woman’s face.  
‘Thou wouldst play with the fire of gods, _orc_? So _feel_ it.’

His lower body cramping in agony, Leon watched as Kristi’s mouth gaped open. Her eyes started from her head as if she were at last seeing something she had always imagined and found it terrifying. She made a strange, strangled sound.

‘Now,’ Coldagnir said. ‘ _Burn._ ’  
Leon smelt charring flesh through Coldagnir’s perfume: flesh burnt on the altars of gods, to Melkor, to Mairon, to (in this world) Huitzilopochtli, the pitiless sun god of the Aztecs. The sun god — whom Coldagnir was.

Smoke wisped up. Kristi’s hair crinkled, singed; her eyes flooded with blood. A scream erupted from her throat and then was strangled. Her flesh shocked the plum colour of a burn, and then black. Her body spasmed.

And then, so suddenly, and with a surge of power that left Leon gasping, flesh and bone together collapsed into ash.

He blinked. The room darkened or rather, he guessed, Coldagnir called in his power. Flames still raced down the billowing waves of hair. he reached out his hands, gathered the spot-fires into his palms. The sun-storm of his eyes rested on Leon, who moved, wincing, off the bed, forced himself to stand straight.

‘Thou shouldst simply have killed her,’ Coldagnir said.

Leon almost laughed. ‘Believe me, I suggested that myself.’

‘Thou art hurt, wait there.’ He glanced around, punished open a door and went inside. Leon winced, reached for a box of tissues and wiped himself. The paper came away red-streaked. He heard the sound of running water.

‘Get in the bath,’ Coldagnir told him, with a jerk of his head.

The bathroom was all cream and gold, and a comforting scent rose from the foaming water.

‘Why?’ Leon asked as he stepped in. ‘Why did you come? You must know what I am, and my choice.’

The god’s face was as beautiful and terrifying as a supernova. ‘It was either Vanimórë or myself,’ he said. ‘One of us had to kill her. We know what she is, all her history. But I did not expect this—‘ He indicated the bedroom. ‘And I could not countenance it. Thy brother wishes to speak to Vanimórë, so I elected to come. And choices? I wonder...We all make choices, Leon St. Cloud, all the time. I served the Dark.’ He proffered a glass of brandy. ‘Vanimórë served for thousands of years. Perhaps I prefer to see him in thee, rather than Sauron.’

Leon flushed. ‘He is my father,’ he returned, stonily.

‘Vanimórë’s father, too.’

‘And he will not kill him, nor permit anyone else to harm him.’ His teeth shook a little against the thick glass of the tumbler. He drank, felt the warmth of the spirit spill into his stomach, radiate outwards. The shivering subsided.

‘No,’ Coldagnir admitted, with the faintest of smiles, acknowledging the hit. ‘But I do not presume to understand the complexities of that relationship, or,’ he added. ‘Thine own.’

‘Then leave it,’ Leon said, turning his head away. The water lapped up to his calves. He lowered himself into it, felt the sting against his cuts. Coldagnir went out and the door closed. Leon sighed and washed, ridding himself of the feel of rape, the smell he imagined lingered on his skin. He had done this before — ritually cleansed himself. The sense of memory shocked him.

There was a shower over the bath and he rose, turned it on and rinsed himself. It was a moment before he realised he could feel the heavy drag of long hair against his thighs.

He dried himself, found a comb and drew it through his hair. Wiping a hand across the condensation that fogged the mirror, he stared at his reflection. The thrill of his appearance — as if he had won a great prize that had long been out of reach— shocked away the hurt of his wounds for a moment. This was how Marcus had appeared to him; this was how he had once looked. _I am myself again._

He allowed himself a brief smile, then drew a bathrobe from the hook and opened the door to the bedroom.  
His eyes flashed immediately to the pile of soot; all that remained of Kristi, but then moved to Coldagnir, surprised to see him still here.

‘Thou were supposed to kill her, I assume?’ Coldagnir raised his brows. ‘But the rape?’

Leon held his gaze, saying nothing. After a moment, Coldagnir nodded as though answered.  
‘I will not apologise for my actions. Thou didst remind me so much of _him_ , when he was young, in Angband.’

Leon pulled a swathe of hair over one shoulder began, automatically, to braid it.  
‘I wish I was — him.’ The words were out before out he could prevent them.

‘No,’ Coldagnir corrected sternly. ‘Thou doth not wish thou wert _him_.’ Fire glowed at the back of his eyes, a furnace, ever burning. ‘He lost almost _everything._ ’ And then, suddenly. ‘Where did _he_ go? The one who called himself Samael?’

Leon’s hands paused. ‘You know?’

‘We know that thy father took two bodies from the morgue: thine own and the one who was Samael.’

‘Samael,’ Leon repeated. ‘I liked him.’ Perhaps he still did. ‘Then: ‘Do you not _know_?’

‘Indulge me.’

Leon thought rapidly. Coldagnir was a god; he could certainly find out. He shrugged.  
‘Eru came for him. Eru brought him back.’ He remembered that scene in the bedroom of Woodsend, the striking similarity between Creator and Created. The sweet-toned voice: _’Hello, father.’_  
‘His name was Elgalad.’

Coldagnir had gone very still. It was like watching a time-lapse sequence of the sun’s quiet years; no sunspots, just a blank solar surface. Leon felt a desperate need to fill the silence.  
‘I dreamed of him, of both of them,’ he said. ‘Eru called him a thought-form, and said that if a creator thought, it is real.’

And then the sun erupted; in that polluted room, the sheer power of it was shocking, blanching the air white. Leon flung up a hand against it.  
‘Elgalad,’ Coldagnir said. ‘ _Elgalad._ Vanimórë did not think...could not think...’ He stopped himself. ‘I must go. Leon St. Cloud. Vanimórë-that-was. Do not forget _he_ created thee. Make the choice.’ The great wings slammed out and the building shook; thunder rolled and the air was heavy with cinnamon. The wings enfolded Leon and he felt the warmth of the feathers, the light, a kiss on his brow...

And then the room was cold, in the absence of that heat. Leon blinked, looked around. All was white, as if baked in the heat of a thousand years of sun. And the pain of his injuries was gone.

OooOooO


	7. ~ The Brightness of Illusion ~

  
  


~ The Brightness of Illusion ~ 

~ Marcus stood a long time beside the menhir, his ‘Wait!’ ringing out into the empty air, echoing back from dreaming hills. The Blackwater shirred under a gust of wind, then stilled again to black glass. A waiting silence fell. Marcus lifted his hand to the stone and Rob Roi snorted, nudged his shoulder.

Marcus turned to him. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know.’ He mounted, but did not ride away at once; he watched the place where his twin had vanished, half-hoping he would reappear. A raven mocked him.

The wind rose, salt and heather and pine, sweeping through his hair. He let his sigh drift away on it and touched the stallion with his heels, turning him; he would take the longer route back. Not willingly would he pass that lake again.

For a long time he rode on reflex, though Rob Roi tossed his head and his glossy hide twitched while the black loch was still in sight. At last Marcus roused himself from a blushing, burning mental replay of the kiss and patted the stallion’s neck.  
‘You knew him.’

 _‘Two halves of something that was once whole, and is now ripped apart. Half a life, for for both of us, and always something_ missing.’  
He bent his head down, clasped his arms around that warm, muscled neck and closed his eyes. A pain had nested under his ribs, the words Leon spoke were engraved on his bones, but it was the kiss that seared, still.

Impatient now, he quickened the stallion’s pace and, when he returned home, found that the house was empty but for Ellie Campbell preparing food for later. The St. Andrews party would be returning in time for dinner, and savoury smells wafted from the direction of the kitchen. Marcus could hear the housekeeper singing along to music. Unabashed, she hailed him as he passed through.  
‘Don’t be going out again, my lad. Dinner’s at six! A cup of tea, now?’

‘Thank you,’ he accepted and sat at the big scrubbed table while she poured and pushed the cup across.  
‘So where did you go? It’s a grand day.’

‘I went past the Blackwater,’ he said and sipped his tea, watching her face. She flicked a hand at him.  
‘Well, you don’t want to do that. And I bet that horse of yours wasn’t happy either, was he?’

‘Well,’ Marcus said. ‘There is a strange atmosphere up there, I will say.’

‘And so there is. Your great aunt now, she wouldn’t go near there. No-one in the village does.’ Ellie turned away to check something in the fridge.

‘But why?’

‘Cannae tell you, lad. You know what the gossip in villages is, or maybe not. Most of it’s beer and the rest’s bullshit.’ Marcus laughed out and the woman grinned back but wagged a finger at him. ‘But even last year there was some hiker went missing up there. Never found his body, only his backpack near the old stone. In fact, I think there may be something in an old book in the library. I’m sure there is but where...?’ She tapped her lip then shrugged. Marcus gulped back the rest of his tea and rose.  
‘I might have a look for it. Thank you, Ellie.’

‘You do that.’

Luc and Vanya were still out. Marcus was glad she was teaching him, as she had taught he himself. _He will need it._

 _I mean to go,_ Luc had said. _To find out what I truly am._

Marcus ran up the stairs to his bedroom, showered and changed, then prowled the house restlessly from one empty room to another. He wanted to speak to Vanimórë but pride held him back; pride and, he admitted to himself, a kind of awe — and he did not want to go running to anyone, not even Vanya. _If I must be alone in the world I go to, I cannot afford to rely on anyone else._

He tried to thrust away the consuming-fire memories of meeting his twin, and thought back to the Blackwater and the sense of ancient menace that lurked there. Because it was something else to think about rather than his twin, he went to the library, hunting for the book Ellie Campbell had mentioned. He trailed his fingers over gold-incised titles without reading them and then, with a curse called:  
_Vanimórë._

The reply was almost instant, curling a lash of steel and velvet about his mind.

 _Thank you for answering me,_ Marcus said with grave formality. _I have...I saw Leon. He came here. He was waiting for me when I rode out._

_I see._

_Take it from my mind. I am sure you can._

There was a moment of silence; an old clock ticked sleepily. Marcus drew out a leather bound book, hands tight on the cover.  
_I am sorry, Marcus,_ Vanimórë said at last. _But it seems inevitable that Leon would seek thee out. The impulse probably was his own and no command of Sauron’s. Thy bond is stronger even than that of twins, for thou wert one person once, now reborn as twins._

Marcus said nothing. He had not been able to come to terms or even comprehend that violent _need_ that had exploded out of a lifelong awareness that something was missing from his very existence. Neither did he wish to speak of the horrific _wrench_ of drawing away, of denying his other self.

 _How could he know where to find me?_ he asked.

_Clearly he knew how to use the portals; and it would be easy enough for him to make a guess; this house belonged to his family, after all. Or it may be as simple as Sauron, or one of his people following from Norfolk._

Of course; Leon had no doubt been to this place; if not he would know of it.

 _I have no idea what to do,_ he admitted starkly.

Vanimórë’s mind-voice came unexpectedly gentle. _That I cannot tell thee. It is a road only thou canst walk, just as I did, just as Leon must._

 _But you saved my life._ And not his. Why not his?

 _I want no-one to follow me from a sense of obligation._ The voice turned glacier-cold. _Do what thou must, Marcus._

He stifled the instinctive pulse of anger as he realised that this was the essence of Vanimórë, and the man he himself should have been in that old life: asking for nothing, expecting nothing, using his own conscience as a the only guide in his life. Vanimórë had _always_ walked his own path. His life might touch others at times, but essentially he was alone. It was, Marcus thought, a choice — until all choices were lost in the light of a burning universe.

_Very well, but I need to speak to you. Not like this._

_I cannot leave London at the moment. I am at Howard’s wake, and have a meeting in the morning, but I will be there as soon as I can._ Vanimórë told him crisply. _It was well done of thee._ At the unexpected praise, Marcus felt the glow within him of earning an accolade from the person he wanted to emulate, wanted to _be_. But by now, he knew how that would be received and replied merely: _It had to be done._ He opened the book.

The pain, exploding out of nowhere struck him like a knife in the back. It took the breath from him, sent him stumbling forward. He went to his knees. The book fell with a thud on the old rugs. Through the pain came a mental scream which was both his own and his brother’s, and a terrible old memory of what this was: rape. Leon. _Leon_!

The force of the knowledge pushed him to his feet; he flung around. _Leon_! And the agony burned through him, shrieking up his spine like a hot wire. He was Leon, he was himself, he was Vanimórë —

Then the air shocked white.

 _Marcus_! Vanimórë cried through it. _Marcus. Hold_

 _Leon._ And then: _You’re feeling it too! He..._

_Coldagnir is there. With Leon. He has dealt with the rapist._

Marcus bit out a curse against the still-throbbing pain. _Who? Who was it_? Rage rose in him, implacable as death.

 _Leon was on a mission to kill Howard’s daughter,_ Vanimórë told him. _The rape was ordered by Sauron, as a punishment for disobedience. It was she, Kristie Johns._

 _And Leon submitted to it_? Marcus demanded.

 _He submitted to his father’s orders, yes. As I have done. As we both have done._ Hard and cold and something running through that like a vein: self-loathing, acid, unbearable. _We were keeping an eye on the woman; I thought Sauron might have no further use for her and take steps to eliminate her, and if so, let him do it. I liked Howard. I would have dealt with her myself, but I have always been loathe to harm women, even a creature like Kristie Johns. And I am otherwise engaged. Coldagnir had no such scruples._

The pain began to recede, going out like an ebb tide, gently. He felt his brother’s relief like a silent sob; it matched his own.

 _Art thou injured?_ Vanimórë asked sharply. _Bleeding_?

 _I don’t think so. Wait._ Marcus left the library, entered one of downstairs bathrooms and checked. _No. It seems the pain was real, but there is no physical injury._

_Good, although that is enough._

_You mean any injury I suffer, he will, or at least we’ll share the pain of it?_ Then: _Why now, why not before_?

 _Vanya protected and shielded thee in many ways, Marcus; I think that was one of them. Now there are no shields._ Vanimórë fell silent, letting the warning hang in the air. Marcus thought that with his strict self-control, his hidden passions and pain, his steely hatred, Vanimórë was far more human than his sister, who had loved Marcus and protected him and now let him go to make his own way.  
Walking with some care, he returned to the library and picked the book up. It had fallen face down and the pages were crumpled. He smoothed them mechanically and, despite his earlier resolve burst out impulsively, and aloud: ‘What do I _do_? I want him back. I want him...’ he snapped his teeth shut on that unpalatable and undeniable truth, on the words that shocked the tranquil silence of the room.

_Hope he will come to thee, but Sauron’s bonds are exceptionally strong. I did not free myself until he was cast into the Void, and even then, he had a way back._

_And you will not kill him._

_The problem with that, Marcus, is that it is only temporary._ But the mind behind the voice closed like a slammed door. _I never knew this at the time, but the blood between us allows my father to draw on my energy, my life-force, if thou wilt, to return. The Sauron here does not know that, but he returned, did he not? He sensed my presence, Vanya’s too, and used it. Any anyhow; I prefer to know where he is._

 _What does he want here?_ Marcus asked.

_Ultimately, what he wanted in Middle-earth: to rule. But he will not stay here if there is an opportunity to leave. This time is not his time, not his place, any more than it is ours.This world has gods enough; let them have it._

Marcus heard his twin’s words, clear as chiming crystal: _‘It is all to play for, Marcus St. Cloud, Vanimórë-that-was. There will always be other worlds.’_

 _Even for him, I will not serve Sauron._ He stared, half-unseeing at the open book, then a few words caught his attention and he stiffened.

 _What is it_?

 _I’m not sure. I saw Leon up near a small lochan; the Blackwater they call it in English. It has an exceptionally malevolent atmosphere; Rob Roi reacted to it. There’s an old standing stone there; Leon must have used it. But never mind that —_ He kept one finger on the open page of the book and flicked back. The printing date was 1887.

_Strange Myths of the Northwest Highlands_

_There’s this old book. I was talking to the housekeeper and she warned me of that place, said there was a book here. There is...It mentions the Blackwater...a terrible guardian of a great treasure...lost travellers, a curse on any who touch the water of the loch..._ He sat with a wince, running his eyes down the page. Vanimórë was silent, but Marcus could feel his attention. Now and then he thought he could hear a murmur of voices, the chink of tableware and glasses. He looked up: _Where are you? Did you say you were engaged_?

_Howard’s wake. I cannot easily leave. The department liked and respected him; I have an obligation to be here. When I can decently leave I will do so; I hope to come there later this evening._

_Thank you._ Marcus read a few more lines, then: _Listen to this: Apparently it’s from the Writings of St. Fillan: “The Dál Riata say that in a time long past there was a succession of huge and killing waves that struck the coasts, drowning many who lived on the shores of the lochs and even on the slopes of the hills. At this time, a great and holy light was seen in the waters which was carried by the waves to the dark lake (now known as the Blackwater). It is guarded by a demon who dwells in that small loch. No fish can live in there, and no bird flies over it. Even in the bitterest winter it does not freeze. Any man who has tried to swim there has never been seen again. The Dál Riata set a great stone there as a warning...”_ Marcus’ head snapped up. He sprang to his feet and raced upstairs, forgetting all discomfort, opening his laptop. He started typing.  
_Vanimórë — killing waves...in a time long past. The Storegga Slide! A huge landslide off Norway thousands of years ago that caused tsunami to strike the East Coast of Scotland, and may have flooded Doggerland. But I remember watching a programme some years ago that posited a similar landslide beginning in the north of the United States, some sea bay, and sending tsunami eastward._ He stopped, swallowed. _A great and holy light. It’s the Silmaril...it must be._

 _It could be,_ Vanimórë admitted. _Thou couldn’t be right, Marcus._ It felt like approbation. He thought he could see the smile in the words.  
_And so, what do we do_? he asked _And what is the monster, because there is_ something _there. I know very little about the Silmarils; in my old life I saw them of course, but they did not feel inimical, quite the opposite: too beautiful and brilliant for Angband, and Melkor’s brow was burnt black from wearing them...but whatever is in the loch is definitely malevolent. It wants people to keep away._

 _I believe thee,_ Vanimórë assured him. _But I think we can deal with a monster or two, no_? In Marcus’ mind, the white smile flashed.

OooOooO

_Vanimórë, I need to speak with thee._

Coldagnir’s words brought a faint smile to Vanimórë’s face. _Thou also_? He was talking to Charlie and Martha in a quiet corner; the wake having become an impromptu meeting, at least for the three of them. Most of the department had stayed on after the sumptuous meal, and were gathered in small groups. Vanimöré had exchanged words with all of them during the afternoon.

 _It is urgent._ The strain stretched across Coldagnir’s mind-tone erased Vanimórë’s smile. He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes past five. He could leave now; indeed he ought to, if he were to find a portal to use to take him to Scotland and his meeting with Marcus. There were a few in London, but they were always busy. Too many people around. He would have to leave the city to use one undetected.

 _Very well._ He rose. ‘Charlie, Martha, I beg you’ll excuse me, but I have a few things to attend to tonight. Do stay as long as you wish. RedRose taxis know to expect calls from this party tonight, and all will be charged to me.’

‘Anything I ought to know about?’ Charlie asked.

‘If it is, I will bring you up to speed in the morning. 8.30. We’ll breakfast first.’ He smiled at her and Martha, gave a little bow then left the restaurant. Disdaining the elevator, he ran up the flights of stairs to his suite.

Coldagnir came in on a flood of afternoon sunlight and was it. His expression was so stern, that Vanimórë frowned.  
‘What is it?’

‘I stayed to ensure Leon left the woman’s premises and was not picked up.’

‘There are no orders to do so. No evidence was left, I assume?’

Coldagnir shook his head. ‘Thou knowest what happened?’

‘I felt it.’ Vanimórë said calmly. ‘As did Marcus. I spoke to him.’

‘And I,’ Coldagnir said, ‘Spoke to Leon.’ Then he seemed not to know what to say. He simply stared at Vanimórë who, disturbed, said sharply: ‘Yes? What?’

Coldagnir stepped forward, his hands coming up to cup Vanimórë’s face, burning against his skin.  
‘I asked him what happened to the second body taken from the morgue.’

Vanimórë raised his brows. His words came light, stinging. ‘Eru needs no help from Sauron to bring back Samael Bennett. But why would he? A pretty puppet, but I have already killed him once.’

Coldagnir’s head shook once. ‘Leon was there when Eru came for his...puppet. Eru said he was a thought-form, that when a creator imagined something it became real. Vanimórë; his thought-form’s name was _Elgalad_.‘

It was as if he had waited for so long for the blow to descend, like waiting for news of a death that one is still not prepared for. The room seemed still as glass and as fragile. Vanimórë did not even consider that Eru might have lied; he knew it was no lie. It was perhaps the only time Eru had ever told him the truth: _’Elgalad was a dream of mine who became a reality.’_  
The words had been eating like a worm into his consciousness and he had not confronted them. Had not wanted to.

It felt like the slow drop of a petal at first, expanding until it drenched his world with the memories of Elgalad. _The scent of hawthorn blossoms after rain, when the sun warms the air; the same salty-sweet taste of Elgalad’s essence on his lips...the scent of spring, of possibilities, of creation..._

It was not the love that broke him for he absolutely believed that Elgalad’s love was rooted in dependency. Vanimórë had raised him from childhood; Elgalad had seen no other Elves until he entered the Greenwood. No wonder he had not wanted to be parted from Vanimórë; it was not part of his mission. But then (again) came the blossom-shower of sweetness, the compassion, that Vanimórë had loved because his innocence had long ago been burned from him. _But it was not my lost innocence; it was Eru’s. The Eru of the ancient universe who loved and, in his innocence wanted to share that love. And the love became a cage._

He said, from somewhere, hearing his voice as a distant sound: ‘He did everything Eru wanted him to do. And I did kill him. Twice, I have killed him.’ He drew away from Coldagnir, walked to the window and stared, unseeing, at the view stretching away before him, the deep green of Hyde Park under the massing bruise-coloured clouds. Another storm was moving up the Thames. He laid his hands against the glass and there was a sharp report as it split, spidering away from his fingers.

_I was born for thee, my Lord._

Of course he was. With a sneer at himself, Vanimórë turned away.

‘Thou art glowing like radium,’ Coldagnir stepped forward, concern in his eyes. ‘Vanimórë, thou didst not kill Elgalad. Eru used him, then took him from thee to bind thee more closely, to steep thee in guilt.‘

‘He certainly did.’ Thousands of years of mourning, of hating himself for feasting on all that love.

‘But Elgalad was himself, too. These new universes are thine own thought-forms, just as Elgalad is Eru’s, yet they go their own way and develop separately from their source.’

‘Himself,’ Vanimórë repeated flatly. ‘Was he?’ He flung away from the window. ‘I have to go up to Scotland and return by the morning. Art thou coming?’ He strode across the room loosening his tie as he pushed open the bedroom door.

‘I will come.’ Coldagnir followed him. Vanimórë undressed, hanging up his suit, and walked into the bathroom, turning on the shower, keeping his mind blank. After, dried, he changed into jeans and a polo shirt, looping up his still-wet braids of hair into a coil. Coldagnir waited in the doorway. Vanimórë tossed his wallet and phone into a rucksack then pulled on his boots.

‘What wilt thou do?’ Coldagnir asked.

‘I do not know — yet.’ Vanimórë picked up his car keys. ‘Elgalad may have been himself...’ He swallowed around an iron knot. ‘Although I am not convinced, but he acted as Eru’s puppet, choosing those his _father_ loved and desired in the ancient universe, drawn to them. Was he unable to be _anything_ but part of Eru? He could have _said_ something, but no. He followed orders. And now, Eru is wagering on me not killing one I loved.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I thought Samael _was_ Eru, and I was at least partly right, and now — I will not know which is which, if we meet again. Very clever, Eru. Come.’ They left the suite, trotted lightly down the 27 stories and to the car park. The Bentley eased into the London streets and the storm light of the early evening.

OooOooO


	8. ~ The Beckoning Light ~

  


**~ The Beckoning Light ~**

~ The St. Andrews party returned that evening, right on the heels of Vanya and Luc coming in from their hike. Marcus waited until they had eaten, listened and smiled and said nothing himself. After, they gathered in the sitting room that smelt of old leather and pot-pourri; comfort in a world that he was beginning to know, held none for him.

Luc said, ‘Marcus, what is it?’

Marcus raised his brows, anticipating the reaction as he replied: ‘I...saw my brother today. I saw Leon.’

‘ _Leon_?’ Claire repeated sharply.

‘I know. He’s dead. Or was, but—‘ He rose quickly from the chair, looked from one to the other and found no surprise in the faces of the Elves, and none at all on Vanya’s. _She knew; she always knows. She has released me, and now the wind seems so cold._ But he must learn how to be alone, as Vanimórë had said.

‘Necromancer,’ Edenel said, as if he had tasted something foul. Then those white eyes came to Marcus, with that touch of frost and fire. ‘Sauron brought him back, but how? I mean, how would he even access those bodies? The department would have taken them away.’

‘Vanimórë is coming tonight, when he can.’

‘Go on,’ Edenel encouraged gently and so, with difficulty when he came to their parting, the frenzied kiss of union, and rejection, Marcus related the meeting. The weight of their eyes was a heaviness; he lifted his head against it and went on to the rape that he had not experienced but nevertheless felt. He saw Claire’s head shaking in denial, not of the story, he thought, but that act of violence.  
He ended, tiredly: ‘Vanimórë felt it too. I wished to talk to him and so, as I said, he will be coming here.’

‘I know how hard it is to reject the blood, Marcus St. Cloud.’ Edenel’s voice held nothing but empathy.  
  
‘Yes,’ Tindómion agreed with one flash of a silver glance at his father, who nodded. ‘It tests thee. And more than that, if thou art so linked that thou canst feel all that happens to him.’  
  
Claire stood up, went to the drinks table and poured them all whiskey. Coming to him she placed the glass in his hand, folded his fingers around it. ‘Are you alright now?’  
  
‘No,’ he said, with a grimace. ‘But I do not expect to be.’ _I never will be until we are together — rejoined._ If...  
  
Luc clasped his arm. ‘I cannot understand, I know, but I’m here for you,’ he said. ‘We all are, yes?’ Claire nodded.  
  
‘Leon St. Cloud was not the only body Sauron took from the morgue.’  
  
Vanimórë’s entrance was silent, but the bow-wave of his presence pushed into the room like big surf. Marcus immediately felt reassured, as if Vanimórë knew all the answers, could always help, and immediately tried to repress his reaction as unfair and claimant. Coldagnir, shimmering pure fire, came a step behind; his face shining, stern. Vanimórë’s eyes were cold iron.  
  
‘Samael,’ Edenel said at once. ‘He took Samael?’ And rose from his seat. His hands came to rest on Vanimórë’s straight shoulders. It was a grip of comfort, thought Leon, of steadying. His wine-coloured voice stripped of emotion, Vanimórë told them everything from the beginning: The fire in the London morgue, the two bodies taken away, Howard’s subversion and his death, perhaps natural, perhaps not. Luc blinked, a frown frown creased the smooth skin between Claire’s eyebrows.  
  
‘We know about Leon,’ Vanimórë ended, and although he did not look at Marcus when he said the name, Marcus felt his cheeks flood hot. ‘Not why he might have brought Elgalad back.’ He turned to Marcus as if disengaging utterly from the subject, shaking it off. ‘We will talk, thee and I, in a moment. I have to return to London later. I have a meeting with Charlie and her new assistant Martha, in the morning, and then I must interview the entire department.’  
  
Edenel spoke to Coldagnir. ‘Thou didst go to Sauron,’ he said. ‘Did he say anything?’  
  
Coldagnir shrugged. ‘According to _him_ , he has been sitting in the Timeless Halls as innocent and harmless as a spring lamb,’ he said wryly. ‘He has not been anywhere near the portal; that is guarded constantly. But...’  
  
‘Yes,’ Edenel replied. ‘ _But._  
  
‘I really did not expect him to say anything,’ Vanimórë said. ‘It was worth a try.’ He flicked a hand. ‘There is more. Marcus, the book?’  
  
Marcus nodded, retrieved it from a side table. He crossed to Maglor who gave him a searching look and took it, eyes falling to the passage indicated.  
  
The room fell silent for a moment, all eyes on Maglor. Tindómion went to his side as Maglor’s breath caught and he looked up.  
‘It may be.’ His eyes caught fire from his thoughts, blazing pure silver. ‘It has to be. Does it not?’ His question was fierce.  
  
‘What may be?’ Claire asked.  
  
‘A Silmaril,’ Maglor said.  
  
‘A _Silmaril_? Then...What is this monster that is supposed to be guarding it?’ Luc wondered. He shook his head. ‘ _Is_ there one?’  
  
‘There’s something,’ Marcus said firmly. ‘Rob Roi sensed it.’ He at Claire. ‘It reminded me of what you said about his behaviour at Peddar’s Way.’ She nodded. ‘But I saw nothing. And the village itself seems warded.’ His eyes went to Vanya who had said nothing from the beginning. Now, she spread her hands.  
‘The village has been warded time out of mind,’ she agreed. ‘Still, there are always...cracks.’  
  
Maglor said only one word, shot it like a bolt at Vanimórë: ‘ _When_?’  
  
‘The Solstice,’ Vanimórë replied. ‘Doorways will open then between here and other worlds, between here and Valinor. I know, it is a few weeks away, but thou hast waited this long, Maglor. The world is old, and no white ships sail from the Havens any longer. But the Straight Road will open for thee, then.’ His hand lifted to touch Maglor’s face, then withdrew as if he would not permit himself the action, the contact of skin-on-skin. Marcus had noticed this before, and understood it. It awoke a confusion of pity in him, an old afterglow of desire and fire and (now) shame at his own actions in that other life.  
  
Vanimórë’s eyes, burning, moved to Marcus, beckoning and owning with just that look.  
‘Let us speak.’  
  
  
  
  
  
Marcus shut the bedroom door behind them and walked across to the window. He smoothed a hand across the sill and said, without looking around: ‘I have to detach him from Sauron.’ At Vanimórë’s continuing silence, he did turn. Vanimórë’s expression was somber, even sympathetic.  
  
‘Could we ever become...whole?’  
  
‘I suppose if —‘ And then, uncharacteristically, Marcus thought, he stopped.  
  
‘If we died,’ Marcus completed the sentence.  
  
‘Manwë and Námo colluded in thy punishment,’ Vanimórë said. ‘Or so I believe. Once they are dealt with, made impotent, the yes, if thou wert to die, thy rebirth would make thee one person again.’ He stepped forward and suddenly danger crackled around him like a birthing sun. ‘Suicide I will _not_ countenance.’  
  
‘If I were to die in battle? If we both died?’  
  
Vanimórë caught his face. ‘Look at me,’ he commanded. ‘Thou art a part of me and not easy to kill. Yes, there is a chance thou couldn’t die in some battle beyond this world. But do not seek it out.’ His voice softened. ‘Do not seek death.’  
  
‘Didn’t _you_?’ Marcus demanded, and saw the brilliant violet eyes flare.  
  
‘I want— I wanted oblivion,’ Vanimórë said, turning away.  
  
Marcus stared at the haughty straight back, the twin swords rising like a dark and violent intention from the harness.  
‘You still do,’ he said.  
  
Vanimórë laid a hand on the door, opened it. He looked back, and Marcus had never seen an expression like that in anyone’s eyes before. It was like being sucked in by a black hole of rage and abyssal grief and fury, leaving him ripped apart by those feelings, the force of them, the _desolation_ , and left with ash in his mouth. And worse perhaps, were the teeth of despite, Vanimórë’s hatred of himself for loving, for losing, for feeling anything at all. For what he perceived as his own crippling weaknesses.  
  
The bedroom was so silent when he had gone, like the echoes that are all there is left after a universe has died.  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

‘Who’s Elgalad?’ Claire asked diffidently.

She and Luc had wandered down to the little cove in the long, luxurious evening. Edenel and Coldagnir joined them a few minutes later saying that they were on their way to the harbour inn. All four of them walked along the shore to the village.  
Tourist season was only just beginning and there were not many in the pub. They took seats overlooking the bay and sat for a while enjoying the immensity of the view, the gentle sigh of the tide, the creaking call of seagulls.

Claire saw her words bring a frown to both immortal faces, then Edenel said carefully: ‘He was someone Vanimórë loved greatly. I never heard all the tale. Vanimórë is close-mouthed, he always was but ostensibly, Elgalad was the child of Amroth and Nimrodel.’ After a moment he related the tale of how Vanimórë had been with the pregnant Nimrodel when she died and raised the baby, whom he called Elgalad. Claire and Luc were silence, not even interrupting with a question until the end, when Luc swore in French and Claire said, ‘Oh my god.’  
There was really nothing she or anyone could say to that story, nothing anyone could feel except pity. And she thought of Vanimórë’s expression, the way he had dismissed the very name, and knew that there was a pain there that went so deep she had no words to touch it.

‘Then, who’s...well...whose side is he on?’ Luc asked. ‘If Eru brought him back?’

‘That, we do not know,’ Coldagnir murmured. ‘I do believe he loved Vanimórë. I saw them together. I believe _Eru_ loves him, loves us all. Which is, of course, the problem.’

Claire sifted through her dreams. She had to look on them as dreams, at least at the moment; she needed the perspective of distance. Too much was happening too fast, and seeing Harrison had not made anything any easier at all.  
‘Over-protectiveness,’ she said softly, unable to wholly ignore the dream that had featured the goddess with the red-gold hair, and the child...The goddess was not _her_ ; she had to proceed from that assumption before an ocean overwhelmed her. ‘Too much love.’

‘Parents always have to let their children go,’ Luc replied softly. _More pain._ ‘Some are even glad to. But willing or unwilling, it is part of life.’

‘Eru did not want it to be part of his life,’ Edenel said quietly. ‘Too much love, yes, Claire and, in the end, too much hate.’

‘Is he dangerous, then?’ Luc asked. ‘Elgalad?’

‘I would have said he was dangerous as a warrior is dangerous,’ Edenel mused. ‘Otherwise, no. Not then, so I _thought_ ; as sweet as clover honey and as loving. Was that even real?’ He raised his brows. ‘I do not know. Perhaps even Elgalad does not know. Vanimórë...needed him, or what he represented: an unshadowed and innocent love.’

The lingering light coloured the sea and land, made them numinous, a place half on the edge of the world-that-is. From the bar, warm light glowed; someone laughed. Claire watched an expensive car purr past, silvery in the airy dusk. Its indicators flashed as it turned into a nearby cottage drive. She heard two car-doors slam.

‘What will happen,’ Luc asked. ‘When the doorways open?’

Edenel shifted in his seat. ‘A great deal,’ he said soberly. ‘A great deal will happen. There will be a portal to Valinor, yes, but to other times and worlds too.’ His eyes shone like lamps, eerie and inhuman. ‘Be careful.’ And he glanced at Claire. ‘Stay with us.’

OooOooO

‘An interesting place,’ Mairon agreed, addressing the mirror, and the image of himself on the other side replied thoughtfully: ‘Yes, I see.’

One finger circled the Scottish village.  
‘Not all of them can be found; some are buried, others have been removed, but once a stone circle enclosed the whole place, to protect it from the monster who dwells the Blackwater.’

Leon sat up. He had been advised to say nothing unless the _other_ Mairon requested it, and so he listened, fascinated by the idea, the _fact_ of his father communicating with _himself_ beyond the world (all worlds) and resentful of the exclusion.  
His father glanced at him.  
‘Well?’

‘Oh yes, there was something there,’ Leon said levelly. While waiting for Marcus he had felt it like a cold regard, half-sleeping, but aware as a dreamer is aware; something immense and terrible, beyond human understanding. Because he would not be driven from the spot, he had remained, but uneasily, conscious of the dead silence of the place.

‘Bring the boy forward, let me see him.’

At a gesture, Leon, prickling at the _Boy_ , rounded the table where his father sat, saw the small mirror and in it, the Mairon of the old universe. He experienced the same shock, the sense of awe as he had in Vanimórë’s presence, Edenel’s and Coldagnir’s. _Someone too much for this world_. He inclined his head in respect. Mairon’s ember-lit eyes sparkled over him like a curious cat’s. His white gold hair was drawn back and circled by red gold set with pigeon-blood rubies.  
There was nothing lascivious in the look, as there had been in Kristie John’s _I’m going to fuck you_ expression; rather it was measuring, appreciative. The modelled lips tilted upward. ‘Very like mine. I understand you were raped this afternoon, no?’

Leon said coolly: ‘It was my mission, my Lord.’

‘Oh, _very_ good,’ Mairon-of-the-Mirror exclaimed. ‘Because under that trained obedience you are _seething._ How very like _my_ Vanimórë you are.’

 _I hope so,_ Leon’s mind replied before he could control it, but he saw the smile in the lavender-red eyes.

‘So Nemrúshkeraz killed her did he? Hmm.’ He steepled his fingers in a way Leon had seen Vanimórë use. ‘Well.’ He shrugged an elegant shoulder. ‘Orcs are always expendable. And so...you met your twin.’

Leon’s mouth dried. ‘I did.’

‘And how do you intend to bring him to your side?’

‘I do not know if that will even be possible,’ Leon said honestly after a gasping moment to gather his senses. ‘He follows Vanimórë.’

‘I would not underestimate the power of a twin soul,’ his father murmured.

‘I don’t.’

‘And where do you go from here?’ Mairon asked.

‘When the Portals open, to Valinor,’ his counterpart responded. ‘I really have to see what happens. And then —‘ He shrugged. ‘I have spent decades seeding my influence in this world. I do not want to leave it completely.’ He leaned forward as if forgetting Leon. ‘Tell me more about this Mirror,’ he said.

‘Ah, the Mirror, yes. It is a window to anywhere, and a Portal. But you know that.’

‘I have not been able to use it thus.’

Leon stared at the back of his father’s head. Where had he tried to go?

‘Hmm, but then you have only had it a short while. Do you _know_ what you seek?’

‘Yes.’ Instantly. ‘I would go back. Back to where I can remake my choices.’

In the Mirror, gleaming eyes widened a fraction. ‘Yes, I see. Well, as I said, Fëanor’s Mirror was a copy of the Great Portal here in the Timeless Halls. From the Portal, you can see anywhere, and any _when_. Choices made and unmade and what proceeds from each. It would be wise to know, would it not? Using the Mirror rather than the Portal—‘ A delicate shrug. ‘It is entirely possible you may need another Mirror fragment on the other side.’

Leon felt his father’s attention focus like a laser.  
‘And the Great Portal is in the Timeless Halls?’

‘Yes,’ Mairon replied with that incalculable smile. ‘Would you see it? I am sure you would. It is far too dangerous. But I can show thee how to use that Mirror fragment to find another.’

There was a moment of absolute silence. Then: ‘How?’

The Mirror’s surface wavered like a heat haze and Mairon’s hand pushed through. Slender, elegant, beringed, yet Leon saw the immense strength in it. The sinews were ropes of pure steel.

His father’s hand caught it.

What happened then _bent_ reality. An arm, clad in red silk followed the hand, then the shard...warped, stretched. A brilliant light blasted the room, and with it came a scent like ice, like spun-sugar, like fire and wine and rainflowers.

Marion-of-the-Mirror stepped through, to stand before the table. Lightning seemed to crackle around him, shimmering down the lengths of his hair.

He drew Leon’s father up, to lean across the table toward him. Leon saw those catlike eyes smile.  
‘Hello, Mairon,’ he said calmly, composedly. ‘Nice to meet you in the flesh, as it were.’  
Then his free hand shot out, settled on his duplicate’s chest and _pushed._ There was a cry, a stench of burning flesh. Leon, catching at his father, felt his convulsive spasms and saw, over his shoulder, Mairon...pull out the heart. His own lurched in horror, beating in time with the still-living organ that Mairon closed white fingers around. They stained red-gold.

Then the heart charred like offal in a furnace, blackening, shrivelling. Mairon dropped it on the table. His bloody hands cupped Mairon’s face, drew it forward and Leon saw something like smoke, shining, glittering, drawn in through the parted lips. _His life-force._ Inside, he was screaming in horror — and frozen, unable to move.

His father collapsed as if he were a puppet whose strings had been cut. He fell across the table then, slowly, slid off it to lay on the floor. Across the space, Leon stared at Mairon. Who was smiling.

‘But... _But he was you_!’ Leon’s shout had no force behind it. His breath was gone. He clutched at the table. ‘Why? _Why_?’

‘Fool,’ Mairon said and his eyes were fire. A tang of metals and minerals scorched the air. ‘There is only one of me. The copies are simply...competitors.’ And then, to Leon’s utter bafflement, he flung back his head and laughed, picked up the blackened heart and clenched; it sifted into nothing like charcoal.  
‘Of course he cannot really die, is that what you were going to say? No; I have absorbed him. I really _cannot_ be bothered to deal with other versions of myself. I know myself too well.’ He took the mirror shard and looked in it, smiled and turned it face-down. ‘He had told me all I needed to know about this world, and gave me a way out.’

‘A w-way _out_?’ Leon stammered. His heart still thundered shock through his body. ‘You... _absorbed him_?’

‘Mmm.’ Mairon looked around the room. ‘After the Dagor Dagorath and the end of the Universe, I was imprisoned in the Timeless Halls, constantly watched. I could not leave my prison to look for the Portal, but I _did_ find a shard of the Mirror. Celebrimbor told me of the Mirror, what it was, its properties. He never could resist sharing an idea and Fëanor’s Mirror fascinated him. Well, it should. It took me a while to learn how to use it, but then time is nothing in the Halls. I began to perceive that it might be used as a Portal but just to risk it — I might have had I not connected with him.’ He nodded down toward the body. ‘Someone who had established himself on a world. Far easier. And, naturally, being a version of me, he was more than willing to speak of what he was doing here. I am quite impressed.’

Leon shook his head. Mairon glanced at him with amusement.  
‘And I want to see my son,’ he said. ‘He has never returned to the Timeless Halls. He is a damned romantic at heart, and I suspect he cannot bear it. I want to know where else he has been, and the meaning of his dreams — my dreams. An Ancient Universe. So, if Vanimórë will not come to me, I must go to him. Spare no grief for your father, Leon. You have not lost him. He is me; I am him.’ And he snapped his fingers and laughed.

OooOooO


	9. ~ Sheet Lightning ~

  
  


**~ Sheet Lightning ~**

~ Marcus woke from something that was not a dream; it was far more visceral, like a pain that is felt through deep sleep and finally rouses one to wake.  
He said, into the grey light: ‘Leon?’

There was a jerk, a tear within him, not physical but a rip in the mind, a sense of horror, of loss and running through all that, shock.

‘ _Leon._ ’

He strained forward with him mind, almost touched his brother’s and felt, with a stretched yearning, Leon’s mental turn toward him. There was a fingertip’s brush, then something slammed him back, fire and metal, familiar and strange. Concentrated power. It was as if a door shut upon him.  
  
He threw back the bedcovers and was at the door before he wondered what he was doing, or even hoped to do. Suddenly, it opened inward and he almost fell back before Vanimórë whose eyes burned in the pallid dimness.

‘What happened?’ Marcus hissed.  
  
‘I am not sure,’ Vanimórë said slowly. ‘Do not go to him, Marcus.’  
  
There was a breath of silence, then Marcus exclaimed: ‘I know, I _know_ , but...’ He pushed his hands into his hair. ‘Not like the rape. He’s not hurt physically, but something else.’ He struck his fist against his breast. ‘His soul...’  
  
‘Marcus, would wager all my wealth that Sauron is going to come here, to try to cross to Valinor, so thou must needs wait, and Leon will come here.’ He tilted his head. ‘Come downstairs.’  
  
Marcus glanced down at himself and, deciding that his pyjama shorts were decent enough and anyhow, it was after one o-clock, followed Vanimórë down the stairs, though the silent house, into the kitchen. Vanimórë did not turn on a light and Marcus had realised since that night at the Clouds, he did not need one to see in the dark.  
  
Vanimórë made tea, laced it with honey, and sat down opposite Marcus at the big scrubbed table.  
  
‘What do you think happened?’ Marcus asked after a sip.  
  
‘I do not know.’ He slapped a hand impatiently on the table and Marcus heard him draw a breath. ‘Sauron,’ he said. ‘Not thy father. Mine.’  
  
Cold prickled through Marcus’ flesh. ‘Sauron? But —‘  
  
‘The problem is, as always, that I have so little power here, compared to the Outside.’  
  
‘So you don’t know what’s happened?’  
‘I could, if I went _Outside_ , yet that seems to be...’ White teeth gleamed. ‘Cheating.’  
  
Marcus huffed a startled laugh. ‘Cheating?’  
  
‘Odd to say, but I preferred my life when I was not a god — and more.’  
  
‘As Sauron’s _Slave_?’  
  
‘Not that, no, but the odd simplicity of it. I never wanted to be a Power, just to be free. And I was right. The more power one has, the less it should be used.’  
  
‘Would you go back and change it if you could? Can you?’  
  
Vanimórë raised his brows. ‘I think I already have.’

‘ _What_?’  
  
‘I am living with what came of my changing something long ago; we all are.’  
  
The clock ticked. Marcus swallowed a little convulsively. Vanimórë was gazing down at the table-top; when he looked up, Marcus saw, just for a moment, _behind_ the luminous purple: the obliterating light of an ending.  
  
_He can’t move beyond that,_ Marcus thought suddenly, with his own kind of mental illumination. _He doesn’t even want to._ Then he realised that Vanimórë could hear him, and he braced for the expected shutting out, but then a charming, smiled, crooked with acceptance startled him.  
‘No,’ Vanimórë acknowledged. ‘Why would I want to? I spun the universes anew out of defiance and blood, but it could never be the same.’

Marcus agreed; it had not been even here. In his old life, he had not been like the Vanimórë who stared back at him. A copy, that was all, a facet of the original.  
  
‘No, not a copy, a facet, yes.’ Vanimórë sat back. ‘But, to return to our previous conversation: I can only see so far, and not enough. Eru blocks the way. Thou hast dreamed the dreams of the ancient universe.’ Marcus nodded. ‘But there are great gaps I cannot see into. And I need to _see._ ’  
  
‘Do you ever...’ Marcus sought for the right words. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to look and _see_ all the possibilities, all the consequences, _first_?’  
  
Vanimórë smiled again. ‘That is probably what my father would do — and thine. But to me, that way lies madness. I do not want to know _everything_. One can only do that by becoming omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent — and that, Marcus, strips one wholly of humanity. I think Eru has been that way too long, forgotten how it is to be, to _feel_ , if he ever truly knew. He has never been anything other than a Power, a Creator. But...something created _him_. Nothing exists in isolation.’  
  
Marcus stared at him. ‘Do you know who created him?’  
  
‘Not yet — or do I? Have I forgotten?’  
  
Marcus massaged his temples. ‘Are we talking about paradoxes?’  
  
‘Always.’ Vanimórë laughed a little.  
  
‘And...what will you do when the portals are opened? ‘  
  
‘That is easy enough, in theory.’ A spark of humour glinted and died. ‘First, I go to the Outside, and deal with the Valar.’  
  
Marcus felt a reciprocal upswell of vengeance though he had never had anything to do with the Powers in Middle-earth. Yet they were responsible for ripping his soul in half so that he was born as Mortal, as one of a twin.  
‘How, exactly?’ he asked, fascinated.  
  
‘Take their power; it then goes back into the universe,’ Vanimórë gestured. ‘And for those who deserve it, unmaking. They will simply not exist.’  
  
‘You can do that.’ Marcus said it as a statement and drank more tea. ‘And then?’  
  
‘Assess the situation in Valinor.’ His eyes became distant. ‘It will not be as it was before when we lead all the Reborn, and others also, into Valinor to take down the Valar. I wish it could be. Now...’ A one shouldered shrug. ‘I will play it by ear. After these meetings in London, I must go away for a while and set everything in motion.’ He rose, took the cups and rinsed them out. ‘I will use the standing stone beside the Blackwater to return to London. I want a look at the place, anyhow.’  
  
‘I’ll come with you.’ Marcus pushed back his chair. He glanced down at himself. ‘I’ll just dress.’  
  
Vanimórë stretched out a hand, tapped him on his shoulder. ‘No need. Simply drop the glamour. Be _thyself._ ’  
  
Marcus, with a revelatory laugh, said, ‘Of course, I’m not used to it.’ And now he saw himself attired in the gear he would have worn in Middle-earth: black breeches and boots, black shirt, long hair drawn up in a high tail. A copy indeed, of the man opposite him.  
‘That feels better.’  
  
Vanimórë nodded. ‘I can never become accustomed to appearances here. And the short hair.’ He swept a hand toward the door. ‘Come.’  
  
  
  
It was not truly dark at this time of year, a liminal kind of twilight spread across the world, and the summer stars were brilliant though gaps in the milky clouds. They took the track that climbed through rocky heather toward the hidden loch. The mountains towered, frowning, dark titans against the sky. Their presence was enormous, ancient. Far off to the West, silent lightning played.  
  
Marcus paused. ‘A storm is coming.’  
  
‘Not yet,’ Vanimórë said. ‘But I would not be surprised if the Valar know something passes here.’  
  
He moved through the darkness like a shadow, silent, and Marcus matched his stride until time seemed to fall away and it was as if they walked in an older world.  
  
They breasted the rise, and the Blackwater opened before them like a pit in the earth. At once the sense of wrongness hit Marcus, stronger even than in the daylight.  
_Keep away! Keep away_!  
He stopped, glanced at Vanimórë who was standing with a frown on his face. He tilted his head to one side a little, as if considering a puzzle.  
‘Hmm, yes, _fierce_ , is it not?’ He strolled down to the very edge of the loch, where the still water stood black and hard as jet. Marcus realised Vanimórë was not in the least concerned or intimidated, merely interested. He went down into a hunter’s crouch.  
  
‘Then there _is_ something down there?’ Marcus asked quietly as if to speak too loud would disturb it. ‘It’s not just a...haunting, a feeling?’  
  
‘Oh, there is something,’ Vanimórë murmured distractedly. ‘And it is powerful — half-sleeping. Dreaming. It has dreamed for a long, long time. And I doubt those dreams were pleasant.’ He fell silent; from somewhere down near the village, an owl called, soft and ghostly. Vanimórë straightened.  
‘What dost thou feel from it?’ he asked.  
  
Marcus frowned. ‘Feel?’  
  
‘Yes. Beyond the fear of the unknown, beyond the sense that it wants no-one and nothing to come near. That is what it wants from thee — from everyone: To be left alone. But under that, what?’  
  
Marcus fell silent. He reached back, then, to his first lifetime. He had walked the hallways where the Nazgûl screamed inside their own soul-bound shadows, seen the half-ghosts of Dol Guldur. He had bowed before the Dark Gods, seen his father change from man to wolf, watched Thuringwethil in service to her master, woman and great bat. Fear of the unknown was something that had been bred out of him a long time ago. He would never have survived, otherwise. Now, to just... _push_ past the mental barrier of living in this world for twenty-five years...  
‘Anger,’ he said slowly. ‘No. _Rage._ Madness. Pain...and—‘  
  
‘Grief,’ Vanimórë said. ‘Perhaps there is always grief in the heart of a demon. Except my father,’ he added, but there was a dry amusement there. ‘Whatever lies beneath this loch _wants everyone to keep away_ , but that is not the only feeling. I wonder...the power of the Silmaril is still potent. They obsessed Melkor and Elu Thingol, Elwing and the Valar. Why not a monster?’  
  
‘You think it _projects_ this fear simply to keep people away because it could not bear that the Silmaril be taken from it?’ Marcus exclaimed, forgetting to lower his voice. ‘Actually, that makes a lot of sense. But then when Maglor takes it—‘  
  
‘Silmaril will call to Silmaril. Blood will call to blood. Yes; it will not want to give up the prize it clings to, but as I said: we can handle a monster or two.’ A smile flashed white. ‘Go back now,’ he said quite kindly. ‘Be vigilant, but do not worry, All of thee have powers although they require some growing into, and acceptance of them.’  
  
‘I will walk with you to the stone.’ Marcus set his shoulders.  
  
‘Very well. But I counsel thee: do not use it. Leon _will_ come here.’  
  
There was no ripple of water, no wind here, in this dim, quiet hollow of the hills; it seemed as if everything passed over it or around it. _Keep away._  
  
‘I don’t feel it,’ Marcus murmured after a time. ‘The Silmaril, and I would have thought its presence could be felt whatsoever had claimed it. Even in Angband it blazed.’  
  
‘It is very far down.’ Vanimórë’s voice was distant, almost dreamy. ‘Deep in the cold and dark. The demon’s projection is powerful, that I will say. And it has had thousands of years to build walls around itself and the Silmaril, there in the dark and the silence. But when the jewel comes to Maglor’s hand — and it will — I promise thee, it will light the skies on fire. And then we shall see this demon.’  
  
A leap, a frisson, burned through Marcus’ blood like a wind from beyond the world, fire and ice.  
  
‘And then — what wilt thou do?’ Vanimórë asked.  
  
‘I want Leon, Marcus said simply. ‘I will not give up. Whatever happens. He spoke of other worlds —‘  
  
‘Sauron spoke of them, I do not doubt,’ Vanimórë replied. ‘And yes, all gods can travel to them from the Timeless Halls but most become entrenched in their own realities and never leave them. It is like layers; from the surface there seems but one, but from a different position, cutting them through, one sees how many there truly are. From the Outside one can see, and all are accessible. Yes, well, Sauron would never be content with Valinor unless he could rule it, and I should think he has too much in play here to abandon it. But I would be interested to know how he means to travel to different worlds.’  
  
‘Have you? I mean, will you leave this world forever?’  
  
‘There are many like this,’ Vanimórë said. ‘I visit them at times. What else is there to do until eternity’s end?’  
  
_Eternity’s end._ Marcus’ throat tightened with desolation. He waited a moment, controlled his voice.  
‘I,’ he said. ‘Will not return.’  
  
‘Of course not, thou art too like me, perhaps a _better_ version of me, at least now.’  
  
Marcus loosed a breath. ‘No. No. I did those deeds; I lived that life, and I died at Glorfindel’s hand. Rightly. I’m ashamed of some of my deeds — not all,’ he admitted. ‘But yes, I agree it was simpler then. Simpler and more dangerous and more beautiful with magic alive, and far horizons, and glory and sorrow and tragedy. And Power.’  
  
‘Yes.’ And the ache in Vanimórë’s voice throbbed in Marcus’ own heart.  
  
‘And so, I’ll willingly leave this world for a place of Elves and gods, if you leave any gods standing, that is.’ (At this, Vanimórë gave a shout of laughter, clear and free and shocking in this place). Marcus froze, expecting some kind of reaction from the monster in the water and Vanimórë shot him a grin of pure mischief, like a boy daring something he knows he should not. Marcus smiled, mimed a ‘ _Phew_!, and shook his head.  
‘I will learn to be alone if I have to,’ he continued. ‘If that is what it comes to in the end. I am already learning. Vanya...’ He paused. ‘She has given me up.’  
  
He felt Vanimórë’s hand on his shoulder, heavy as the world, hot as a forge.  
‘Marcus, Vanya is of the world, this one and all the life-bearing planets in every universe. She is the Mother of Life. She cannot follow thee. Of course she gives thee up, as easily and naturally and sweetly as bird releases its chick to fly from the nest. She lets thee go, just as she let me go.’  
  
They walked on in silence; moonlight washed the clouds pale, shone down upon the lightless loch and the stone that rose like a warning at its further end. Marcus saw a shimmer around it like a heat-haze on a summer road.  
  
Vanimórë turned to him. ‘Go now,’ he said. ‘I will come back, and then a great deal will happen very quickly, I think.’  
Suddenly, and startlingly, he leaned forward, kissed Marcus on the brow. It was a benediction, but his blood leapt, hot and fast as a galloping horse, and heat shocked into his cheeks. He stared into the face that was like his own but with something in it that could never be his, something elemental like the fire that illuminated universes, like the black holes at the their centers’. He slammed his body into Vanimórë’s .  
  
It felt like Leon’s kiss — and it felt like eternity, like immolation. Like a thousand worlds collapsing into ruin and rising from the ashes of nothing. _Destruction. Creation._  
  
Marcus was not quite a virgin but it took a great deal to fan his desire. What he sought was not stability, promises, tenderness, but something far wilder, primal and unapologetic; strong and lethal as the blood that bursts, spilling hot, from the point where a dagger enters the heart. It was that, he thought, hazily, he had sensed in Luc that summer night in Toulouse, but only skirted the margins of. Unhuman blood. Immortal passions. Neither of them had known, then.  
  
Then Vanimórë tore himself away. He stared at Marcus  
a little, puzzled frown etched between winging brows and touched a finger to his mouth. For a moment, Marcus thought he would kill; the uprush of emotion was so wild, so violent. Then the threat melted into understanding.  
‘I am not Leon.’ The words were velvet-soft.  
  
‘You are not Leon,’ Marcus agreed steadily thought his body sang a high-pitched note of pain and hunger. ‘But he and I are both part of you.’  
  
The blazing eyes darkened. Vanimórë still spoke quietly, but the kindness had gone, leaving only steel.  
‘Do not look for anything in me,’ he warned. ‘I can give thee nothing. These universes were born out of my grief and rage, and there is nothing _left._ ’ He snapped away so that his tail of hair swung and sank, and stepped into the stone’s shimmering light casually as one walking through a door. It limned him in radiance.  
  
‘Vanimórë!’  
  
The brightness of his face might have been that of a statue, but then he raised his hand in a crisp salute. For the blink of a second Marcus saw a whirl of images, places, worlds, stars, sun-bright, vivid, and then the light faded leaving only the night.  
  
He turned back the way he had come, burning, _burning._ Every step beside the Blackwater, he listened, imagined some great eye rising from unimaginable depths, and fixing upon him. In fact it was exactly what he needed to counteract the hardness, the _lust_.  
  
But nothing stirred. Whatever demon dwelled there was sunk deep in agelong dream. When Marcus strode out of the hollow, and looked down at the village, a breeze from the sea cooled his heated face. He stood a moment, breathing the soft highland scent of salt and heather, moss and stream. Down below the village huddled, small against the vast land, its houses dark.  
  
He lifted his gaze to the West.  
  
Sheet lightning played on the dark horizon like the warning of the gods.  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO


	10. ~ Like Flowers in the Rain ~

  
  


**~ Like Flowers in the Rain ~**

~ It was early when Claire woke. She had a vague, quickly fading impression that her dreams had been strange, yet her body and brain felt rested. _It’s the air — the mountains and sea._

It was so light here in the mornings now that the window already glowed with daylight. A whisper of air drifted into the room, across the bed: the sweet, clear scent of the mountains, the briny loch, fringed with sea-wrack, and a breath of something sweeter, like flowers in the rain...

For a while, relaxed as warm honey, not quite conscious, she lay, half-chasing the unremembered dreams. Images flashed and floated before her closed eyelids. _A palace, stormy seas breaking against cliffs, a man crowned in power as if light itself bowed in worship at his feet. A child, black haired and beautiful, smiling up at her. A moon rising on the first day of autumn, hanging like a Chinese lantern in the pale sky as the leaves tinted bronze and gold at the touch of a goddess’ hand. A woman with a monster’s heart, old blood on her tongue as she forced a kiss on Claire’s mouth. Water glimmering between lovely old houses, the sun on a blue-green lagoon. An ancient yew tree murmuring secrets in a storm. Flames leaping in a hearth while a snowstorm whined beyond thick walls. A woman who’s red-gold hair bleached to white even as her mind sewed her lips shut over horror. Winged gods massing for war, terrible, glorious. Love like desire, like sunrise, love that was the bosom-friend of impeccable hate. A Silmaril burning. A great and terrible light—_

She blinked herself awake then. When she had washed, brushed her teeth and dressed, the house was still quiet. It was Sunday, and Ellie Campbell did not come in on Sundays.

She went softly downstairs, past closed doors, dim rooms, long corridors, into the kitchen, and was about to put the kettle on when she thought of Dougals, the little harbour cafe. It would be open; she had seen the opening times on the menu when she sat there with Maglor. It would be lovely to sit there, drinking tea, looking across the harbour, the shimmering loch, to the mountains. To _think_. Her trip to St. Andrews to visit Harrison had not made anything simpler; rather the reverse and the dreams, though dissolving again in the benign embrace of the house, moved restlessly under the surface of her mind.

She looked on on Robin, but the stallion was already munching hay from the stall, though he turned and came to her, accepting the carrot she offered. Marcus must be up already and had seen to him, but not ridden out. She would do so, later, she decided. The day was cloudy, mild; good weather for riding.

The narrow lane was deserted, the few holiday homes and larger houses set back along their drives, drowsing in the peaceful morning. There was no view of the sea here, behind the sheltering trees, but the old stone wall was warm with red valerian that had taken root in its crevices. The white cat, sitting prim and perfect as a porcelain ornament, jumped down from its perch to twine around her ankles.

‘Hi.’ She stroked it, and its back arched. ‘The cat who walks by himself.’ It seemed to agree with her assessment, for it gave a little yowl, and bounded off up a driveway. She wondered if it lived up there. Behind its wall and dark laurels, the house could only be glimpsed, but there was a big silver car parked on the tarmac; a Bentley like Vanimórë’s save for the colour. She recalled seeing it glide past the inn, last evening, hearing the distinctive deep thrum of its engine.

A man appeared then, coming down the drive. The cat, demanding more attention, trotted up to him, and he leaned down to fuss it for a moment, before strolling into the road. He was tall, and walked light and lithe; a tumble of thick pale curls crowned his head, almost silvery in the shadows. His clothes were simple enough: faded jeans, boots and polo shirt, but there was the unmistakable touch there of _money_ , of quiet confidence.

He looked at her; she opened her mouth and was sure, for one moment that she was going to say something, a name perhaps. And then it eluded her, was gone, and she was left feeling bewildered, oddly embarrassed. She closed her mouth with a snap.

The young man seemed to notice nothing amiss.  
‘Good morning.’

‘Hello,’ she rejoined. ‘Is he yours?’ She added: ‘The cat?’

‘Oh —no,’ the man replied as the cat trotted off down the road ahead of them. ‘I saw him when we arrived last night.’

‘He gets around,’ Claire said. ‘But I don’t think he’s a stray; he looks too well cared for.’

The man smiled faintly. His face was lovely; there was a deep sweetness in the eyes, which were astonishingly clear under the thick rill of lashes. Not grey or blue, but water-light as rain. The mouth was kissable, but the angle of jaw and nose were strong and straight, the column of his neck elegant. There was no trace of beard shadow on that pale skin, but he was so fair Claire couldn’t imagine him needing to shave often. An angel on the margin of ancient Bible, painted in silver and gold. But no, she corrected, not quite. There was more than a hint of wildness there, in his movements, in the eyes: a scent of blossoming hawthorn, of deep woods...a white hart bounding into the trees, streams running cool and secret under fretted branches.  
 _Come away O human child! To the waters and the wild..._

He glanced back at her and she found she was blushing, as if he might have heard her thoughts.

‘Were you walking to the village?’ he asked, and his question was so natural, the tone so normal that she knew she had imagined it. But the scent remained, some kind of subtle cologne, white flowers in the rain...She tilted her head to catch the fleeting memory, then because she realised she had not answered, was staring, said hastily, ‘To the little cafe. Dougal’s, on the harbour.’

‘We came past it last night. Would you mind if I joined you? My father’s not up yet, and I thought I might have breakfast there.’ His smile warmed. It was nothing like the hot, challenging blaze of a Fëanorion smile or the dangerous flash of Edenel and Coldagnir — or Vanimórë’s which was somewhere between the two and, sometimes, like ice.

She realised he was waiting for her reply, not presuming her answer would be in the affirmative.  
Yes,’ she said. ‘Of course.’

‘We got in just last evening,’ he volunteered. ‘Are you holidaying here, too?’

‘Ah — yes.’ She found herself about to say more and stopped, recalling the need for discretion. They walked along the middle of the lane which turned and sloped into the village, and the view broke upon them, flung the doors of the world wide and far. A couple of hikers passed with a greeting, and some small boats were out on the loch, but the village was not yet fully awake, curtains closed over sleeping windows. The cafe, through, had its doors open. She could smell coffee, bacon, the sweetness of fresh-buttered toast. The air had made her hungry and she said involuntarily: ‘That smells so good! I was only going to have a cup of tea, but...’

The young man smiled engagingly. ‘I don’t think I could resist, either. Will you join me?’

By unspoken consent they took one of the wooden tables outside, and her companion went in, to emerge with two steaming mugs of tea. Politely, he sat opposite her rather than beside. Claire thanked him, spooned in two sugars into her tea and sipped.

‘So beautiful.’ The rain-grey eyes shifted from the view to her face. She had become used to eyes that were opaque: Edenel’s frost-white, Maglor’s silver, Coldagnir’s fire. But these eyes...they seemed like a well to the bottom of the world.

‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, it is.’  
He wasn’t Scottish, nor did he have any traceable accent. His voice was clear and beautifully pitched, but without the distinctive high-class polish of the St. Clouds or her London acquaintances in what seemed like another life; yet sometimes he seemed to speak carefully, as if English were not his first language and he had to think over the words he chose before pronouncing them.  
‘How long are you staying?’

‘I am...I’m not sure. The house belongs to my father but I was never here before.’ His eyes lowered to his tea, then rose again. ‘I hope you don’t mind: I ordered you a full breakfast?’

She drew her purse from her jacket. ‘I don’t mind at all, but I’ll pay you back.’

He made a shooing motion with one slim hand. ‘My treat, really. It’s nice to talk to someone.’

She couldn’t imagine he would find it hard to speak to anyone, not with those manners and those looks, and she found herself wondering about his relationship with his father. He was no teenager, probably in his mid-twenties, but domestic abuse could last lifelong. Or perhaps he.... _Oh, stop it!_ Mentally, she shook herself. Her imagination, fed a constant diet of the impossible these last weeks, was running riot.

Their breakfast came then with condiments, a rack of toast and fresh pot of tea. The cafe boasted that all its food was locally sourced and ethically farmed, and the taste bore this out. In her London days, Claire would never have ordered or even thought to eat such a breakfast (or rather she would have thought about it, but denied herself) but months of hard physical exercise at the Clouds had sharpened her appetite and exorcised the old guilt. She tucked in with enjoyment, savouring the flavours: thick bacon, mushrooms oozing their own dark juice, plump tomatoes melting under the knife, a fluffy mound of scrambled egg, sausages piping hot, bursting their skins.

They ate in appreciative silence for a while, then the young man began, softly, to talk. He had recently begun working for his father, he said, who was ‘quite well-off’. Thinking of the Bentley, Claire guessed that was a rather large understatement.

‘Are you going to sail?’ she asked. ‘Or just relax?’

A little flush came into the fair cheeks. ‘I thought I might do some walking. Father is researching something.’

‘Well, it’s a wonderful walking area,’ she said, more than ever leaning toward the idea that there was something not-quite-healthy about the fraternal relationship. Perhaps nothing more than an overbearing parental figure. He seemed peculiarly innocent, not simple, but as if the varnish of childhood still glossed him, or he had just come out of some long, artificial sleep...something in those eyes...‘And the weather seems to be holding up.’

‘I hope so, although there was lightning last night, out at sea.’

‘Really? I never saw it. There are no storms in the forecast.’ She placed her knife and fork down on the empty plate. ‘That was _just_ what I needed. Thank you.’

He smiled, warm and suddenly brilliant. It made him look less untouched, more approachable, quite charming. ‘You’re welcome. Thank you for keeping me company.’ He hesitated and then: ‘My name is Mel.’*

‘Claire,’ she responded, pouring them more tea. ‘There’s a couple of nice pubs here, too. That one just there, and one on the road out of the village. They’re very friendly, and they serve food, if you or your father don’t want to cook, and who does on holiday? There’s a little shop too... but I’m sure you know that.’

‘Thank you.’ His lips still held their curl. He seemed about to say more, when his head suddenly turned as if listening. The smile vanished. His clear profile looked tense, very still, waiting and she was reminded again of something half-wild, not tamed, a deer coming out of the woods, scenting for danger. Reflexively, she, too, looked around but saw only Dougal, solidly normal, as he came out, asking after their meal.

‘It was wonderful. And I really must be going.’ Mel rose and placed two crisp notes down on the table as a tip. Claire added to it and Dougal, with a nod of thanks, took the tray back in.  
‘Well, thank you again, Claire.’ He looked around. ‘It is a small village, so we might bump into each other.’

‘I expect so, and thank _you_ for the breakfast.’ She was rather surprised at his abrupt departure and watched as he walked quickly down the harbour road, not back the way they had come. Two white butterflies danced over his head, then flittered away.

A few seconds later, Edenel appeared and, seeing her, raised a hand.  
‘Thou art early,’ he said quietly, coming over. ‘Breakfast?’

‘I just ate, thank you,’ she demurred, smiling. ‘With someone from the village. Well, a visitor like us. They have a place here. I didn’t say anything,’ she added, a bit defensively.

‘Of course not,’ he smiled back. The way he turned his head to look around made her think of Mel, though his body-language had held more tension. Edenel’s was that of a hunter picking up spoor, or some lingering scent.

‘What is it?’

She almost jumped. ‘Nothing. I don’t know. I think I had some odd dreams. I can’t remember them; they were a real jumble, but I’m just...thinking some very strange thoughts.’

The glittering white of his eyes gentled. ‘Everything is getting very close now, Claire. I am not surprised thy dreams were strange. It did not help did it, seeing Harrison?’

She waited while Dougal set down coffee and gone back inside.  
‘No. It was good to see him, but — it would be so easy, wouldn’t it, if we were remote from our relatives, didn’t care so much?’ She blew out a breath. ‘Then, if we had to leave —‘

‘Yes.’ And his voice was deep with comprehension. She felt as if the hand of winter had reached out _Pine, icy water, the fall of snow...a shape vanishing into it...Blood-flowers blooming...darkness like iron _.__

‘I’m sorry,’ she gulped.

He reached out, touched her hand, moth-light. ‘No. Thou art seeing, feeling. The past in thy blood and bone and now, the memories come, like something thou didst know once, and had forgotten. Like a...a download perhaps?’

‘Yes!’ she exclaimed vehemently. ‘Exactly like that.’

‘I am sorry, and with all that, there is Vanimórë’s blood too. I wish thou couldst be spared this, but —‘ His head shook. ‘I mean I understand, and yes. Yes, it would be so much simpler if we did not care, did not love. I feel the bond between thee and Harrison. And I will say as many times as is needed: no-one, none of us, will ever force thee, coerce thee, try to manipulate thee into making any choice at all.’

She blinked, looked away, then back at him and said wryly: ‘Yes, that would be too easy wouldn’t it? And then I could say: I had no choice.’  
  
‘Which is why we would never do it. Not to thee.’

She gripped his hand. ‘I know. I feel that, and — oh, god! maybe it’s pointless turning it over in my mind, and thinking about it all the time! I think that the choice I make will be made in my soul before I even know it myself, and only when the time comes will I recognise it.’

‘And that, too, I understand,’ Edenel replied very gently.

 _Yes,_ she thought. Snow, pine, pain. _Yes. You do._

OooOooO

~ The cloud did not lift, but it lay high and calm over the mountains, luminous, the colour of a pearl.

Claire slanted a smiling Maglor a look as she tightened Robin’s girth-strap.  
‘After reading about it, I’d like to see the Blackwater,’ she admitted. ‘It’s important, of course. But I’m not sure about taking Robin.’

Marcus and Luc came into the stable yard at that moment, both of them dressed for hiking, at least to normal eyes.  
Claire was beginning to see her companions more and more as they truly were without effort, as if their modern appearance was becoming a ghost behind their bones, fading slowly into nothing. Even Luc was not just Luc anymore, not since that night.  
And still, it could catch her by the throat with awe, make her look around and wonder if anyone else had caught it: Dougal, the people drinking at the inn, casual passers-by. She wondered, too, how much her cousin had seen, and kept replaying in her mind their visit to St. Andrews: Harrison’s expressions, what he had said. He was too quick; he knew something was off-kilter, but his concern was for her, had been concentrated on her.

Robin snorted and pushed his hand into Marcus’, who smiled and rubbed the long bone of his nose. While he looked like Vanimórë, Claire knew she would never confuse the two. There was more openness to Marcus’ face; he allowed his emotions to play freely; Vanimórë was far more reserved, his control pure steel. But it was more than that: his presence seemed to push against the air; she was seeing only a fragment of what he was, the only part of him that could come into this world. An avatar, in fact. She shivered slightly, not from fear, but imagining what he really was.

Marcus said. ‘Robin didn’t like the Blackwater, as I said, or rather, he _sensed_ the atmosphere, but nothing will happen, not until _you_ call the Silmaril.’ He turned to Maglor who’s face was stern, remote, but his eyes flashed quicksilver fire as if merely saying the word blazed his soul into light.

‘We are going up there now, Tindómion and I,’ he said. ‘To reconnoiter, as it were.’ He looked at Claire. ‘Thou art part of this and quite welcome. But it is entirely up to thee.’

She pulled down a stirrup, passed around to Robin’s other side and repeated the action.  
‘Well...’

‘You know Robin better than I,’ Marcus said to her. ‘And ride him as well as anyone could. He was skittish, aggressive, but not frightened. But yes, naturally, it’s up to you. Perhaps,’ he suggested, ‘We could all go up?’

‘I’d like to,’ she agreed. ‘But I think Robin needs the fidgets shaken out of him first.’

Luc laughed softly. ‘That horse has a _constant_ case of the fidgets.’ But there was approval in his tone and he moved closer to slap the stallion’s muscled neck. Rob Roi tossed his head arrogantly, and Claire joined the laughter as she swung up into the saddle. ‘What, no escorts?’ she teased.

‘Vanya said it was safe enough, just to be vigilant,’ Marcus smiled. ‘But I’m sure there will be even if you don’t see them.’

Claire nodded. She knew that Edenel and Coldagnir, who were conspicuously absent, did not want to overshadow her movements but nevertheless would watch and ward. She eased Robin toward the stable where a large waterproofed map was nailed on the side wall. The hiking and riding routes were marked out in red and blue pen.  
‘This way, then.’ She leaned in the saddle to indicate it. ‘I looked at it yesterday. It’s longer route but if I take this track here, it leads past the Blackwater and back to the village. That’s the way you came back with him, isn’t it, Marcus, only going the other way?’ He nodded. ‘It’s about five, six miles. Not far, but it’s not fair to take him straight up there if the atmosphere is going to disturb him. He needs a gallop first, if possible. A good trot and canter at the least.’

‘I walked that way with Vanya, yesterday,’ Luc said. ‘Yes, it’s a good route, dry at the moment. There are stretches you can gallop. Hikers permitting.’

‘Good.’ She fastened her chin-strap, glanced at her watch. ‘See you up there, then?’

Robin danced a little as she turned him down the drive, but then settled under her. His hoof-beats fell on the tarmac of the lane, echoed back from the stone wall as if in a tunnel. Ferns curled lushly out of the narrow ditch; a blackbird hopped across the road.

She found herself looking for Mel’s house and, from her elevated position on Robin’s back, could see a little more: A large, white building set at right-angles to the road. The silver Bentley was gone but a minute later, she saw it coming toward her from the village.

Robin, like all thoroughbreds, could be temperamental in traffic although in him, it arose out a sense of mischief rather than any fear. Claire was pretty sure he would have charged a machine gun emplacement without flinching.

The car slowed to a crawl, but still there was little room to pass, and she murmured, ‘Easy, Robin, _don’t_ kick out, please.’ One of the St. Cloud’s horses had once panicked and tried to jump a Landrover, ended up smashing a foot through the windscreen. No-one had been injured — at least not badly — but it had been alarming. Robin would never strike out in fear, only in annoyance, or hate, as she had witnessed at the Clouds.

She pushed that thought away as the Bentley edged as close as possible to the opposite wall. The driver’s tinted window lowered, and a hand and forearm emerged, slim, sinewy, beckoning her on.

‘Thank you.’ She nodded, sat down in the saddle, tightening her thighs. ‘Walk on, Robin.’

The stallion gave a snort, a little prance, then passed the car sedately as a fat old pony brought in from the field. The hand gave a little saluting gesture and she heard the engine as the Bentley moved on. Glancing over her shoulder, she watched it swing into the drive, and glimpsed the pale-haired man behind the wheel even as the window slid up. His son, she thought, favoured him in colouring.

Quiet fell again but for the rap of Robin’s hooves. The lane curved down to the village, past the inn, the cafe, looping around the harbour, and past the next pub. People stared at the great horse, which didn’t surprise her. Dougal, standing in his doorway cradling a mug, waved and she returned it with a smile.

The houses became fewer as they climbed from the harbour.  
A great bird was circling far up, perhaps a sea eagle, and she saw the roll and splash of a what were probably seals out in the loch. Gulls called; boats looked tiny out on the water, dwarfed by the sea and land. Claire trotted Robin up the crown of the road, listening for traffic, watching for the track that lead off to her left, marked by a stand of trees. As the road turned again, she saw it about half a mile ahead.

She relaxed into the stallion’s pace; the swift metronome of his trot as regular as a ticking clock. The breeze was stronger here and caught her hair. She took in a lungful of the northern freshness, falling into that awake-and-aware-but-dreamlike mood that comes on any rider as their body works automatically. She thought back to the morning, her breakfast with Mel and, just now, seeing his father’s car. The meeting and Mel himself had been pleasant enough, and yet...

For no reason at all, ghost-flesh prickled up her bare arms. Involuntarily, she looked around, but saw nothing, and chided herself for jumping at shadows. She had embraced the secrecy of her companions and everything that had happened, concealed it even from her cousin. Too much had happened in such a short space of time and all of it impossible. Perhaps she was becoming a little paranoid.

Robin snorted and her attention snapped back.  
The stallion was going well, a long easy trot, his ears flicked forward, looking forward to a gallop. Some hikers stood respectfully aside, watching as she passed, eyes on the great horse. ‘Wow,’ she heard someone say. ‘My god. What a _giant_.’

She smiled to herself as she slowed at the entrance to the track, and turned Robin into it. Pines scented the air, dimmed it. Little birds piped and wrangled through the branches. Robin’s hooves pressed fallen pine needles deeper into the soft turf. There was a gentle sigh from the higher branches as they caught the breeze, but the air below was still, fragrant.

She let the stallion lengthen his stride to a canter and, in a couple of minutes they broke out of the trees.  
They were in the foothills behind the village now, a tumbled, rocky land, bright with heather later in the year, an easy enough walk, or ride. But beyond, the mountains reared, uncompromising, to great, cloudy heights. Ancient, they were, no sharp peaks but gnarled like beaten fists by millions of years of weathering. The white streak of streams seemed frozen like ice on their massive flanks, roaring down to the loch.

The track climbed gradually through lichened boulders, heather, flaming gorse. White dots were sheep whose plaintive call seemed lonely and faraway as the mourning-cry of the curlew.

Robin huffed, strained at the bit and Claire, seeing the track clear before her, let him go. His muscles locked then sprang into a launch. The wind buffeted her ears, and she experienced the immense exhilaration she always felt riding this most phenomenal horse. It was as if, for a while, they merged into one being.

It was still difficult to think of that night at the Clouds when Robin had killed — one knew horses could kill, of course, but he had killed for _her_ , simply and savagely, an act of retribution. It had not caused her to fear him, only what might happen if word ever got out. It never would, though; the men who had come to the Clouds were...gone. That, too, was something it were better not to dwell on.

They flashed past a tall stone, lonely, lichen-patched, and ahead of her she saw a figure walking. At first she thought it was Edenel, that flood of pale hair, then she realised her wind-teared eyes had tricked her. The hair was pale, but not Edenel’s frost-white, and curled in a loose cap over his head.

He must have heard Robin’s hoofbeats because she saw him turn, stop, and draw back to the edge of the track.

Robin thundered toward him, a rolling, driving force of power, only gradually slowing as Claire eased him back to a canter, a trot, a long, loose walk. She patted him as she reined in next to Mel.

‘Hello again.’ Her heart was beating rather quickly, and not just from the gallop, and then Mel smiled, those eyes guileless, clear as spring water, and said, ‘That was amazing to watch. He’s _magnificent_! And you can _ride._ ’ with such unstinting and natural approval that Claire laughed. ‘Yes, he is, and thank you.’

‘May I?’ he asked, coming forward a little, looking at her for permission. She nodded, then bit her lip — Robin had never been good with men until recently. _And they’re not Men._ The stallion’s body quivered under her, but he stood still as Mel patted him, then extracted a mint from one of his pockets. The huge teeth crunched it into powder.

‘Do you ride?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘When I can. Not lately.’ And he stepped back, running his eyes over Robin. His brows rose.  
‘He’s a thoroughbred, but he looks like a warhorse.’

‘He thinks he is, I’m sure.’

‘Have you had him long?’ She half-expected an ignorant remark such as: _Isn’t he a bit big for you?_ or _Not really a woman’s ride, is he?_ But Mel simply waited for her answer.

‘Oh, he’s not mine. I look after him.’

‘Really? He seems to think he is yours. The way he moves. You have a sympathetic bond, I think?’ He pushed straying curls back from his brow. They tumbled back, wayward. She began to walk Robin on slowly.  
‘I saw your father turning into your house,’ she said on impulse. ‘He was good enough to stop; some drivers aren’t so considerate with horses.’

‘Of course he would slow down for you.’ She looked at him, wondering if she had imagined the stress on the last word, but he was looking ahead. ‘Are you going back to the village this way?’

“Yes, I think so,’ she responded, hoping he wouldn’t ask to accompany her, and feeling a little mean at that thought. But she rather felt that he should not come to the Blackwater, that no-one from the world should. And perhaps, if the power there kept people away, he would not, but use some other route without knowing why he did so.  
‘It’s a few miles,’ she said. ‘Good enough, as long as he can stretch himself a bit.’

‘He’s in training?’

‘Oh no, he’s at stud.’ (or was) ‘But he still needs a lot of exercise.’

Mel suddenly laughed, quite freely. ‘I should think he does.’ he moved away. ‘I will not keep you.’

She smiled. ‘Thank you, I’d better get on. He’s still fresh.’ She raised a hand and saw him watching, the laughter faded. His expression now seemed grave, slim brows drawn into faint, troubled frown.

As she tightened up the reins and trotted Robin away, she felt, like a touch, the rain-grey eyes on her back, then the stallion leapt forward as if under a spur. The track rolled away beneath his hooves.

When she finally drew rein again, the folds of the land hid Mel from sight. It was very quiet, save for the rush of some hidden stream and, from away over the loch, the high, warning call of the sea eagle.

_Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild..._

_The scent of flowers in the rain..._

OooOooO


	11. ~ Lumieré ~

  
  
  
  


**~ Lumieré ~**

~ ‘They guard her always,’ Elgalad said. ‘Edenel would have seen me today — twice today, and Coldagnir, hadst thou not shielded me.’ He sat back on the chair. ‘There is not enough time for me to forge any link with her.’

‘I only needed her to speak to thee,’ Eru said. ‘To recognise thee.’

It was very still in the sheltered garden; a green, quiet place, not overlooked, though only a few hundred yards from the gardens of Duirinish Hall, and separated merely by a high wall, half-crumbling with age.

‘I see.’

‘I wonder?’ Eru poured the wine: Frascati, cold and dry as an icicle’s kiss.

‘Thou wouldst not hurt her?’

‘Why would I?’ The long-lashed upward glance was as cold as the wine.

‘Well, because once, thou didst destroy her and all of them and the universe itself.’ Elgalad met Eru’s eyes unwavering.

The air felt suddenly heavy, as with unbroken thunder.

‘Yes,’ Eru said in a voice that seemed to take its tone from the atmosphere (or create it) and resonate through Elgalad’s bones. ‘I did. _And regretted it_!’

‘I know there is regret,’ Elgalad said. ‘I am part of thee and feel that. But one can never go back.’

‘A new heaven and a new earth,’ Eru murmured as if quoting from something. Elgalad looked at him curiously.  
‘Never go back? Thou art wrong, little one. It could be done, but better, maybe, to make things anew. And I do love them.’ He reached out a hand, touched Elgalad’s cheek. A shock travelled down to his heart.

OooOooO

~ Edenel crouched on the rocky shoulder of the mountain, watching as Rob Roi with Claire astride trotted into view. He had been thinking how like the northlands of Beleriand this land was, especially when one could see no houses, nothing to tell the Age he walked in.

 _But we can never go back_.

He bent his head. As much as Vanimórë did he feel the restless ache that nothing would ever assuage. But to see the condemned souls in this world come to freedom would be something, at least. And then what?

An eagle came down out of the clouds, a fire-bird, trailing flame, becoming Coldagnir as he set foot on the stone. The air warped with heat about him until he contained it within.

‘The Solstice,’ Coldagnir said, burnt eyes scanning the land. ‘It is coming, and strongly. The power marches on the air like the approach of thunder.’

‘I know,’ Edenel murmured then, with a quick look. ‘Oh, I can contain the heat. I have had to before this. I am no slave to it. Do not be concerned.’

‘I am not. I know. It is not that, no, I just wonder...’

‘What?’

‘Why so much power? We have seen solstices on other worlds, but none heralded their approach like this one.’

Edenel shook his head. ‘I do not know, but not the Valar, I think.’

‘No more do I,’ Coldagnir agreed.

They walked down to meet Claire.

OooOooO 

~ ‘Father?’ Tindómion tasted the (still) unfamiliar word in his mouth like fire and wine. Maglor’s straight shoulder was rigid under his.

_It is worse for him; far deeper, more agonising._

Tindómion had not seen the Doom unfold from the beginning, though he had seen it end. (It ended for him when Gil-galad died, burned and broken) But Maglor had lost everyone he loved. And now this terrible _hope._

‘There are no degrees of loss,’ his father said, turning his head.

‘Perhaps. Perhaps there is only loss.’

It was quiet in this hollow of the black lake. Far too quiet. There was a wind up there, on the hill, but it did not touch those motionless black waters. They could have been onyx melted in the cold forges of Ost-in-Edhil and then hardened again. The thought brought Celebrimbor to mind with all the rage and grief and then that landslide of loss, emotions he held back with a dam-wall of will. Not all the time; if something brought it back, some stray memory or dream, he would be consumed with it, that black hole that existed at the centre of him, born from Gil-galad’s death — and existed in consuming fire.

It was the fire that drove him on, that refused to die, refused to utterly despair, kept him surviving in a world that swallowed his own, forgotten it save in scraps of poetry, in books, dismissed it as a fantasy: the world of Men.

‘They kept us apart,’ Maglor said. ‘The Valar. I never believed that they completely turned their attention from Middle-earth.’

‘No,’ Tindómion agreed and, because there was _too much_ : rage, agony, regret, he said, ‘Is it a Maia, down there?’

‘It is powerful. Yes, it could be,’ Maglor agreed. Then his eyes burned like mirrors with a furnace lit behind them. ‘It matters nothing. Maia or Valar or monster from the Dark. I will claim the Silmaril.’

‘I know, father.’ Tindómion kissed Maglor’s cheek. ‘I know.’ _And I will be with thee._

OooOooO 

~ ‘So —‘ Charlie began. Opposite her, Martha looked up from her plate.  
‘So?’

‘So, at least that’s over and we know the department is clean.’

The last couple of days had been gruelling, even for Charlie, who would not admit to any particular awe of Lucien Steele, save in her heart-of-hearts. She felt, after her brief ‘interview’ (‘I’ve been interviewing you since I first met you.’) as if she had been turned inside out and examined through a microscope. Still, he _had_ booked a table for them at Alain Ducasse with rooms for the night.  
The feeling of having being very gently and expertly filleted was _almost_ worth it.

All around them, the fibre optic curtain of the Table Lumieré shimmered, screening them from the gentle sound of other diners and muting own quiet conversation. Lucien Steele never, Charlie thought, stinted — on anything. Especially he did not stint on being an utter pain in the arse, at being the catalyst — or more likely the instigator — of problems _she_ was supposed to make disappear. The latest gem being the mysterious murder of Howard’s daughter, Kristi, that had landed right in Charlie’s lap. Apart from anything else, she felt sheer anger that Howard’s loyalty had been turned for the love of a woman who was — or had been — in the service of Mr. Arthur May. She could only be glad that Howard had never known his daughter’s duplicity, or indeed anything else about her life.

Part of her was glad to be thrown in at the deep end; she knew she could do the job, knew also that there were some in the Department who wanted to see her fail, ambition and office politics being the same everywhere. She had the bit between her teeth now, and was enjoying proving them wrong, _but_.

It was all very well for the forensic team to find no trace of the killer, who appeared to have used a very specific kind of flamethrower that burned nothing but Kristi yet bleached the bedroom furnishings pale. _Spontaneous Human Combustion_ , Steele had suggested, the blandness belied by a twinkle. Charlie had wanted to hit him. She knew bloody well that Leon St. Cloud, who was apparently one of the walking dead, although looking remarkably well on it, had been a visitor to Kristi’s flat just before the murder or, more likely, execution.

‘He did not kill her,’ Steele told her. ‘She would have tried to kill him, however. She was a serial killer. Hands off St. Cloud, Charlie. I will deal with it. Personally.’

Charlie looked across at her dining partner. Martha had been almost invaluable; she didn’t turn a hair at anything, although she was curious as a cat. Charlie could almost see the mental wheels running at light speed when Martha worked. Initially, she had raised the objection that Martha was too young for the position, perhaps a little _too_ enthusiastic, but Steele had talked her into a three month probationary period and, so far, she was reluctantly impressed.  
Taking a sip of the accompanying wine, Charlie sighed internally. It was a good vintage and she felt that, like this meal, she had earned a very expensive drink.  
‘How was your interview with Steele?’ she asked.

‘Fine,’ Martha responded with what Charlie considered irritating _sangfroid_. Then her mouth twisted a little. ‘I wouldn’t like to be on the receiving end of a _real_ grilling from him, but it wasn’t exactly waterboarding.’

‘Mental waterboarding,’ Charlie supplied, rather sourly.

Martha nodded. ‘That I’ll grant you. But it was nothing compared to what he _could_ do. He—‘ She made a gesture. ‘Conceals. _Really_ conceals what he is. We only see the lightest trace of it. They used to call it glamour,’ she ended. Unhelpfully, as far as Charlie was concerned.  
‘ _What_?’

‘Glamour.’ Martha picked up her fork. ‘You don’t think he really looks like how he appears to us, do you? Or acts like it, come to that. He tries to blend in. I’m not sure he does it too well.’

‘What?’ Charlie said again, panicking a little. She really did like Martha, and part of her was not above feeling a slightly smug satisfaction that two women were now heading up the DDE. (And not before time! She had pretty much prepared herself for a male second who would be watching for her to trip up) but Martha also had an imagination. Admittedly, having an imagination, or at least a certain amount of open-mindedness was almost a requirement of being employed by the department, but Charlie thought it needed grounding in ten feet of pragmatism while wearing lead boots.

Martha just looked at her. ‘There’s about a thousand wild rumours and theories of what and who Lucien Steele is, Charlie; you must have heard some of them, even in MI5. You know, that he’s Satan.’ She lowered her voice impressively.

Charlie huffed impatiently. ‘Yes, I’ve heard that. Oh, god, _don’t_ tell me you believe it!’

Martha snorted. ‘The Devil’s a Judeo-Christian myth. You know I’m a pagan.’

‘So you don’t believe in the Devil, or that _he_ is?’ Charlie asked dryly. ‘That’s a relief.’

‘Some of us recognise _Lucifer_ ,’ Martha informed her calmly. ‘Not the Christian Boogie-man, though.’ Her green eyes sparkled. ‘There wouldn’t be enough sage in the world for that! What do _you_ think?’

Charlie picked gloomily at the excellent duck. ‘Well, sometimes Satan makes more sense than anything else. Thankfully, I’m an agnostic.’

‘That must be comforting in our line of work.’ Martha’s face was bland as milk.

‘So, what _do_ you think?’ Charlie decided she would play, however ridiculous the game seemed. ‘Not Lucifer, then?’

‘I don’t think he’s a fallen angel, no. Or...not exactly.’

‘Don’t tell me you think he’s a fucking alien,’ Charlie cast up her eyes. ‘Huge head. Black eyes, thin, hairless...’

Martha choked on laughter and hummed the first few bars of _The Twilight Zone_. ‘And anal probes? Not that, no. But we don’t see even a shadow of what truly he is.’ She leaned an elbow on the table, circled her fork in the air. ‘Have you tried looking at him out of the corner of your eye?’

‘No,’ said Charlie, who was far too direct to look out of the corner of her eye at anyone.

‘Try it,’ Martha advised. ‘Peripheral vision can allow us to see things we might not, otherwise. It’s just a glimpse, a quiver on the edge of sight...’

Fascinated against her will, Charlie asked: ‘What do you see, then?’ She put up a hand. ‘And if you say a reptile or a damn fairy, I’m leaving.’

Martha pealed with laughter. When she caught her breath, she gasped: ‘I was just trying to envisage him in a tutu. I _can’t_!’

Charlie coughed, smothered it in a napkin.

‘Okay, but seriously...’ Martha’s eyes became a little unfocused, looking through Charlie and away into some unimaginable distance.  
‘Humaniform,’ she murmured. ‘He looks like us, that is how a human looks: Bipedal, hair, eyes...But not human, not by any stretch of the imagination. A fallen angel might be closest to the mark at that, but not quite.’

Charlie enunciated carefully: ‘What. Do. You. See?’

‘Just an impression...Long, long black hair, I mean down to the knees and thick as mine.’ She touched her black curls. ‘Taller. And his face...well, granted he looks like nothing on earth now, even under the glamour but—‘

‘You’ve read the deep files,’ Charlie said flatly, referring to the eyes only, top secret files. In eighty years, the number of people allowed access to them could be counted on the fingers of one hand, at least officially. Martha smiled winsomely.  
‘Some, yes.’ She was unabashed. ‘But only to confirm my suspicions. Two men who aren’t men at all and who don’t age, just like Steele? Let alone the mysterious Arthur May. Yes, I have my private theories, but Steele doesn’t exactly fall into line with them. Almost, but not quite.’ She returned to her meal, eating with obvious enjoyment. Aggravated, Charlie said, ‘What does _not quite_ mean, exactly?’

Martha patted her mouth with the napkin, then dropped it and folded her hands. The humour had gone from her face leaving it acute, serious. Intelligent.  
‘I’m not a Christian,’ Martha said quietly. ‘But I have studied the Bible, and a lot of other religions. Okay; Lucien Steele. Even out of the corner of my eye, I cannot see his face. It’s like a blaze of light. And there’s a piece in the Old Testament. Exodus I think. _“You cannot see My face; for no man shall see Me, and live.”_ ’

Charlie stared at her. ‘You think he’s _God_?’

‘I don’t think he’s what the Judeo-Christian’s call god. Not at all. I do think he might be _a_ god,’ Martha corrected pedantically. ‘Doesn’t it explain an awful lot? When he interviewed us, didn’t you feel it; Would you have lied to him; Would you have been _able_ to lie to him?’

Charlie shook her head helplessly.

‘He smells like sandalwood—‘

‘Well that’s hardly a —‘

‘—And _oud_. Agar wood. The real deal. When I lived in Dubai you could get the genuine _oud_ , and it’s incredibly expensive. Black gold. But also scented woods, anciently, were burned for the gods. Worn by pharaohs and kings who believed themselves divine.’

‘I think a god is even more ridiculous than a reptile to be frank.’

‘And then, there’s all the power he is so very careful not to show,’ Martha said slowly. ‘Like the housing for a nuclear reactor. He wears the world; it doesn’t wear him. He’s supremely arrogant —‘

‘Oh, I agree with _that_.’

‘—But not in the sense that he expects every woman or man he meets to bend over for him.’ Martha paused. ‘He’s never been like that, has he? And there’s no record of partners, casual or long-term, either.’

‘Well, no,’ Charlie admitted. ‘Despite his wealth and er...everything, he’s never tried it on with anyone in the Department, or there’s no record of it.’

‘Have they ever tried it on with him?’ Martha asked interestedly.

‘Too intimidated,’ Charlie said. ‘Or so I gathered from Howard.’

‘Yes, that doesn’t surprise me.’ Martha lifted her wineglass and swirled the contents. Her eyes narrowed as if attempting to bring Lucien Steele’s face into focus.  
‘He’s charming, but not sleazy. He’s almost...chivalrous, but not in a way that feels sexist. It’s more—‘

‘— Old fashioned manners,’ Charlie nodded.

‘Exactly,’ Martha snapped her fingers. ‘That’s it. Those manners were learned or adopted a long time ago, and are absolutely ingrained. But more than that, no, he doesn’t take advantage and he’s not sexist, but he absolutely does demand respect. Or not even that, he just knows he’ll receive it. As if he’s been a ruler, and an absolute ruler. Obviously not in any era of recorded history. There _have_ been absolute rulers of course, even so-called god-kings, but all of them died.’

‘So now, we’re going to go down the time-travel rabbit hole? Ancient civilisations? When gods walked among men?’ Charlie, pragmatist or no, had run a good many of the speculations through her own mind and dismissed them. It was better for her mental health and general equilibrium if she deliberately refused to think about it.

‘And the way he goes dark, disappears and then appears again without anyone ever seeing how he does it,’ Martha pursued.

‘Yes,’ Charlie said slowly. ‘That annoyed Howard too.’

‘And the way he can walk through a room full of people and five minutes later they couldn’t even tell you he was there.’ Martha shook her head. ‘I saw it at Howard’s funeral. I think he _allows_ some people to see and remember him, but only a few. You see, the the clues are all there, but we have to string them together—‘

‘No, Martha,’ Charlie interrupted firmly. ‘It’s not our job to string them together. At all.’

Martha’s brows flicked up. ‘Well, technically not. But privately...? Come in, you do it too. What’s _your_ theory?’

‘I don’t have one. It’s not my job to have one. I’m not in the position to allow myself that kind of woo-woo attitude,’ Charlie said meaningfully. ‘I have a job to do, and that job, and yours too, _all_ the DDE’s, is to pretend and make sure everyone knows there is nothing weird or woo-woo going on.’

‘I know and isn’t it _fun_? And then, there’s his accent. I ran it through that ultra-new voice identifier. Brilliant bit of kit—‘

‘—And?’

‘Most people think he’s a Russian oligarch. There are certainly _elements_ of a Siberian accent there, although it comes up with it being more of a _proto_ accent, but also PR English and 70 % at least is unidentifiable.’ Martha sat back.

‘I know,’ said Charlie who had also run his accent through the same identifier as soon as the Department got hold of it. The _proto_ had caused her a bit of a nervous flutter. In the last decade there had been a great deal of research into recreating the voices and accents of long-dead peoples. Charlie couldn’t imagine what use or interest that was save to anthropologists, but Steele’s accent, the program suggested, was _ancient._ Older than Egypt, than civilisations Charlie had to google: The Hittites, Ur of the Chaldeas, the Sumerians.

‘His personal life seems to be a blank, although if it wasn’t, I’m sure we’d never find out.’ Martha’s words jerked Charlie back to the present. She opened her mouth to reply, but fell silent as the curtain rustled and their table was cleared for desert.

‘He could be asexual,’ Martha continued, low-voiced. ‘Personally I doubt that. But partners, a wife, a husband, long-term, that doesn’t seem like him either.’

‘I don’t think his personal life is anything to do with us,’ Charlie said rather primly.

‘Not in that way,’ Martha agreed. ‘But in the way it leads into what he is. You know, I think he’s operating on a different level here entirely, I mean when it comes to relationships. It’s not what he’s here for, anyhow.’

‘No,‘Charlie said. ‘He’s here to be a pain in the arse.’

The fibre-optic curtain shimmered and sang as Lucien Steele walked through, six-feet-something of surreal male beauty, slim, immaculately suited and yes, Charlie thought, smelling like incense. _Martha’s right. The diners will have seen him, some of them anyhow, and they won’t retain any impression of it in two minutes._ She almost wished she was the subject of that same mental wipe.

‘Charlie. Martha. Are you enjoying your meal?’ he asked politely, and to the hovering waiter: ‘And bring the Krug I ordered earlier, if you would?’

‘Of course, Mr. Steele.’

The moment allowed Charlie to remain her poise. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she replied coolly, while opposite, Martha’s eyes danced with mirth for a moment. ‘You’re not eating?’

‘No, but I will share a glass of champagne with you, if I may?’

‘What are we celebrating?’ Charlie asked. ‘The Department being squeaky-clean, I hope.’

‘And your new positions.’

The waiter soft-stepped in carrying a heavy tray with an ice bucket, champagne and glasses. He eased out the cork so that it smoked but did not overflow, and poured.

‘Thank you,’ Steele nodded, several notes changed hands, and the curtain whisked aside, leaving them alone. ‘Yes, to the Department, and both of you. And to Howard,’ he ended seriously, offering the bubbling flutes. ‘A good man who died too young.’

The women raised their glasses and, as one, sipped.

‘Oh, wait, there’s...’ Martha peered into her glass, then picked up the unused desert fork and dipped it in. Charlie, bewildered, looked into her own glass, then at Steele. A glimmering chain came up, hooked on the tines. Martha spread it on the tablecloth: A necklace of white-gold, delicate yet heavy, and depending from it, a flawless diamond, at least 4 carats, set in an exquisite pendant. Charlie fished out her own and stared at it. I was a copy, save hers was yellow gold.

‘Howard’s promotion gift was a Breitling,’ Steele said casually. ‘He said he always wanted one. But you both have good watches already. And you prefer silver, Martha, so I hope white gold is acceptable.’

‘Diamonds in the glass.’ Martha gave a little crow of laughter. ‘Acceptable? It’s beautiful, but Steele, you _poseur_!’

Charlie gulped at her familiarity and glared, but Steele’s smile flashed. ‘Oh, always,’ he agreed. ‘So, I will be going up to Scotland in a few days, returning probably about the 25th. I will be out of contact from the 23rd.’

‘Marcus St. Cloud?’ Charlie inquired, as Martha’s eyes sharpened over the rim of her glass. ‘And the others?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you need anyone up there?’

‘No. I will supervise this.’ He sipped. ‘After, however, there will be quite a lot of work to do.’

Charlie’s heart sank into her shoes. ‘Oh, joy.’

‘Don’t worry. There will be no bodies. I think. I hope.’

Charlie spluttered a little, then fell mute as Steele raised his hand. A moment later the curtain was drawn back and the desert served. Delicious though it looked, her appetite had quite vanished.  
‘The only problem we had with bodies was not actually having any bodies when there were definitely _two bodies,_ ’ she said through her teeth. ‘In the morgue, and extremely dead.’

‘There were indeed,’ Steele agreed and Charlie’s foot twitched with a desire to kick his ankle under the table. ‘But you handled that extremely well. Don’t worry. I will do my best to ensure there are no bodies this time. Paperwork only.’ He finished his champagne and rose with that elegant little half-bow that seemed so unselfconscious that Charlie had to agree with Martha’s assessment: these were manners he had learned and also, she thought, so long ago they were almost a muscle memory, automatic. She tried to look at him out of the corner of her eye, without making it look as if she were doing any such thing. Then Martha lifted the pendant and the sparks from the diamond blazed, making her blink.  
‘Will you be contactable until the 23rd?’ Charlie asked, also getting up.

‘I will,’ he nodded.

‘Good. Well, thank you for the meal,’ she said a bit gruffly. ‘And everything.’ She indicated the necklace.

‘Yes, thank you,’ Martha smiled and Charlie thought for a terrible moment that she would hug him, something she would never have dared to do, but Steele merely extended his hand and shook both of theirs.  
‘You are more than welcome,’ he responded. ‘Good night.’

The diamonds seemed to reflect the fibre-optic curtains and coruscate with an inner fire, cold and brilliant. Martha placed hers over her head where it shone against the richness of her dark skin and red silk blouse.

‘I wouldn’t wear it to the office,’ Charlie warned.

‘Oh, I don’t know.’

There was a mark on the back of the pendant. Charlie examined it: two swords, scimitars that rose in a cross, the ends feathering out into palm trees. *  
‘Is this on the back of yours?’ She showed it to Martha.

The chain was long enough for Martha to lift it and look without taking it off.  
Maker’s mark?’ she suggested. ‘I don’t know. I’ll look it up. You know, the only gift I’ve ever received in the DDE was last year’s Secret Santa. It was a bottle of Prosecco.’ She giggled. ‘You must admit he has class.’

‘He’s richer than Jeff Bezos.’

‘Who doesn’t, I imagine, give his staff Breitling watches and flawless diamonds.’

Charlie shrugged. She was uncomfortable with gifts, liking to earn her own money and pay for things herself, but she _was_ more than a little impressed.

Martha poured more champagne and took Steele’s vacated seat, leaning toward Charlie conspiratorially.  
‘Did you notice he has callouses on his hands? Beautiful hands, perfectly manicured, clean, youthful, but callouses, as if he’s used to using tools or something. But we both know it’s not tools.’

‘I know,’ Charlie said uncomfortably. It was just another of the things she didn’t want to think about.

‘So, he won’t be contactable from the 23rd to the 25th,’ Martha murmured. Her green eyes, unclouded either by the wine or champagne, were very bright. ‘You know what lies between those dates?’

‘What?’

‘Midsummer; the Summer Solstice.’

‘And?’

‘The Solstices, winter and summer are very powerful dates on the pagan calendar,’ Martha told her patiently. ‘There are others too, Beltain, which is May Day, Samhain, or Halloween. You must have seen the coverage from Stonehenge for Midsummer’s Day?’

‘Probably.’ Charlie shrugged again. ‘It’s not the kind of thing I’m really interested in. And so?’

‘ _And so_ : why that date?’

‘You don’t think it’s a coincidence?’

‘And that he wants no agents up there? No, I don’t. Fortunately —‘ Martha drank. ‘I booked that date and Friday too, as a holiday, a long weekend. I usually go somewhere to celebrate the Solstice.’

‘No,’ said Charlie immediately.

‘No?’

‘No.’ Charlie pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘Look, you’re not a field agent, Martha. And it could be dangerous. If it’s anything to do with Steele, who seems to leave bodies behind like sweet wrappers, and his... _friends_ , it bloody well _will_ be.’

‘Or no bodies at all,’ Martha said. ‘As at the Clouds. Of course, you’re quite right. Now, do have some more of this champagne; it’s really very good.’ And, very innocently, she smiled.

OooOooO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * This was Vanimórë’s insignia when he ruled Sud Sicanna


	12. ~ The Dust of our Dreams ~

  
  


**~ The Dust of Our Dreams ~**

~ Claire rose from her bed and walked down the stairs into a room that did not belong to the Hall. It was smaller, more crowded with furniture, shabbily comfortable, the carpet worn. Harrison was sitting on the sofa, game controller in hand, playing some game. He turned his head idly, looked through her.

She went to a window, drew back a curtain onto a blizzard that turned the winter dusk white, roared in the branches of a great yew whose evergreen branches defied the white spume whirling past. Behind her, a fire crackled yellow and ember in the hearth; the darkening glass reflected the warm play of light on a whiskey glass.

Something glinted on a side cabinet and she reached out her hand, picked it up. The mirror glinted darkly, then slipped through her fingers like smoke, fragments shattering on the rug, spinning away into nothing, save one. She stooped to pick it up and it bit into her palm. Blood welled.* A voice somewhere said her name, but there was no-one there.

She walked out of the door, on the East Sands, watching the North Sea breakers crested with white under a dark sky. Her hair lifted in the wind, but she felt no cold, and her bare feet left no mark on the damp sand.

_Claire._

A voice, strange and familiar. Compelling and feared. Warm, as the sun on ice can feel warm until the chill bites.

She stood on a cliff top; the sea was grey-green now, wintry, crashing in thunder far below. Her arm was linked in a man’s, tall and slim, black hair, glossy and bobbed, streaked with bars of teal, and and violet and blue.

_There’ll be blue birds over, the white cliffs of Dover..._

The old tune melted into another; something exquisite, stirring, classical, and she watched, with sheer delight, the man dance on a stage, graceful and powerful as a flexible blade. At the end, the applause was thunderous, and she rose, crying, laughing, clapping. _Gil_!

_Claire._

The cliffs crumbled and the sea poured away, shrank to a narrow loch between rough hills; its dark surface heaved as if some titanic force pushed up from its depths. Water like iron slapped against the rocks. Then, rising up, a brilliant light that turned the water silver. The wind rose and lighting forked across the sky. A man faced into the rising gale, black hair streaming, one hand reaching out...

She ran, terror crying its siren warning in her mind, through dark pines. The resinous sent was thick as the needles she stumbled through, away from, away from...  
She flung herself at a wall, half fell over it, climbing with relief, into a car that pulled up, until the woman, black haired and lovely showed her a monster’s face. Her hands gripped a smooth stone that swirled like a galaxy, and brought it down on the monster’s head, feeling the awful, breaking _crack_ as its skull caved, and still refusing to stop until the thing was dead. Revulsion and rage rose like a fire within her demanding utterance, demanding she slay this monster. Her cheeks stung like venom, and she tasted decayed blood on her lips.

She ran again, through a fantasy of rooms weeping with gems, spread with lawns, traced with water and sunlight and stone carved by the power of thought. _Eternity’s End._

_Claire._

She was a burgeoning thought, a wish from the heart of a god. In light, she came down upon a world and felt herself _become_. She breathed air on the cusp of the year’s change, she saw faces that (already) she knew and loved. She walked to them, her gown green as moss, trailing, and touched the leaves that bowed to her power, tinting bronze and red and gold.

_Andúnië._

Her first name. The truest.

An army faced one man across a smoking plain. The world itself, once so beautiful was shattered with the power that had played across it in the war. Oceans boiled dry, grassland and forest burned to ash. Had they not been gods, they could not have endured, and the one they faced was the creator of them all. He had loved them, protected them, and they had loved him until dissatisfaction grew, the need for freedom.

_Eru is lying to you._

He would forgive them, she knew, if they bowed to him again.  
They would not. It would be, they knew, a colder love, dangerous, entombing them in pack-ice.

The hot wind gusted his hair, silver streaking the blown dust. He watched them and they returned his gaze. His head tilted then, in acknowledgment; a tiny smile, _So, look what thou hast brought me to_ crooked his mouth. He raised a hand to the sky — and there was an obliterating flash....A world gone, a universe ended in the blink of a Power’s eye.

Claire dreamed herself awake. For a moment, she struggled to understand where she was, until she remembered. She had been unable to sleep and come downstairs to find a library book. It lay beside her on the sofa where she had been reading under the lamp, and fallen asleep.

She straightened, rose. Her leg bumped against the coffee table, sent something falling with a soft thud. She picked the Mirror up, and moved through the dark house. Everything seemed limned in silvery light.

There was a half-moon, streaked by cloud, as she opened the kitchen door. She heard the sigh of the sea, gentle tonight under the press of tide and breeze. It curled against the sand beyond the trees and she followed the sound.

The wavelets were tinged with phosphorescence, unthreatening, as they lapped cool against her toes. Further along the beach, the light caught the gleam of a pale head. He was sitting on the land, arms folded around his knees. He did not move as she sank down beside him.

‘Could you not sleep?’

‘I thought I was,’ Claire murmured, pitching her tone to the quiet of the night.

‘Perhaps we are the dreamers in the dream,’ Mel replied. They sat silent for a long time, then Mel stirred and rose lithely to his feet. She thought she saw the unfurl of silver hair against the dark, then he turned back to look down at her, and seemed taller than before.  
‘Claire,’ he said softly, his voice like and unlike the one that beckoned her, and then after a pause, and almost helplessly: ‘Be careful. Be safe.’ Then he touched her hair, light as the brush of the breeze, and turned away. She watched him walk, glimmering, down the little beach, and then into the trees until his light was swallowed by the shadows.

A bird was singing outside her window. She rose, blinking and stretching, pushing back the covers. She felt light and oddly hollow as if the dreams had pulled something essential out of her. It was the Blackwater, she thought, what she had sensed there and felt. Robin had been nervy with the fierceness of it and so, she admitted, had she.  
It took her a moment to see the sand at the bottom of the bed, the grains of it stuck between her toes.

 _I don’t sleepwalk,_ she though. _I don’t._

OooOooO 

~ He could (would not) not have told Marcus, or anyone, but feeling, the recognition had lifted the hairs on his head. The frustration of not _knowing_ clawed at him; there was only one thing to do. And it was something he dreaded.

He left the Dorchester, left Charlie and Martha to finish their meal, and drove out of London, joining the traffic on the M25, the lines of lights, the late Friday night rush out of the capital.  
He did not stop until he was in rural Oxfordshire, on smaller roads where, now, there were no cars under the blank, dark sky. He parked the Bentley, locked it and walked. Somewhere, a nightingale sang.

With relief, he shed his glamour, raised a hand. The Rollright Stones began to shimmer, light jumping from one to the other like electricity, until the whole stone circle glowed like a great wheel.

He watched it for a moment, not wanting to do this thing, knowing he must. He set his jaw, walked into the center and left the world.

The emptiness struck him like a knife to the gut, even as the power of his coming, his true self regained, shook the Timeless Halls like thunder. He breathed in the freedom of it and, in his heart, wept. Once gods had dwelt here and fashioned it with their minds.  
_‘To thee, Fëanor, I give the Timeless Halls, beyond measure and beyond Time itself.’_ His words, billions of years ago, in a universe that was gone.

And it had, for a while, an eternity, a heartbeat, been glorious.

He let the imagined wings snap out, taking him the the great mountain where Eru’s palace had stood. Fëanor had recreated that too, and now it stood, a monument to one who was gone. The brightest of flames.

He remembered words in the green garden of the Portal, words he had not wanted to hear, while Fëanor’s artist’s hands ran down his body, cupping his rear.  
‘Surely it has occurred to thee? Eru fought with thee. he took something from thee, also, which thou didst then rip from him as dross. The part of Melkor that was beautiful and charismatic, that was clever, came from _thee_ ’

Then their fighting, half playful, half in earnest and wholly in passion.

‘Let us make the Timeless Halls shake to their foundations,’ Fëanor blazing, inviting, shameless.

And...  
‘Is there not a saying, that sometimes to fight evil one needs not good, but another kind of evil? A survivor, is it? And a gambler too. To destroy thyself, gambling thou wouldst be strong enough to reach beyond thyself, and the Outside.’

‘Well. What else could I do? No god could have bested Ungoliant.’

And Fëanor throwing back his glorious head and shouting with laughter. ‘I do not know, Vanimórë. What else indeed?’

And so he had destroyed himself to become more than a god, to become...something he had always been? _For thee, Fëanor, for all of thee._

‘Art thou running away?’

‘From what?’

‘Go away,’ Fëanor, laughing again. ‘We will continue this...conversation? another time.’ But he placed a hand flat on Vanimórë’s breast and the other drew through his hair. ‘I hope I do meet thee, over there, in that world.’**

And there were realities where Fëanor had not died, had lived, and not been banished to the Void, but those worlds had no need of Vanimórë, only those where he was punished, he and his children and where the Oath and the Doom bound them. Fëanor did not live in those worlds, only Maglor, wandering and, sometimes, Tindómion.

Maglor, hating him and desiring him equally.

Maglor, in the time before Dagor Dagorath broke upon them:  
‘Thou art a fool. And perhaps the greatest power in the cosmos. And I want thee to forget that, for a time.’

And he had forgotten it, giving himself up to Maglor’s desire and wrath, to the agony and surrender. Maglor was the only one he had ever willingly allowed to use him thus, in pain and savagery, and it had been _so good._ A matter of trust, he had said, and it was. And such _heat_ between them.

_And I loved thee. I love thee still. My first desire, natural, unforced by sorcery or sex. Awe and beauty and need._

The pain widened, cut deeper, a torturer carving out his organs, slicing through his nerves. It was unendurable to see Maglor in other worlds, so much the same but different, with nothing between them. That beautiful mouth, star-bright eyes, face of a god under the thick glory of his hair. It was like remembering one’s first love: that flood of desire and _want_ , keen as wine on the tongue, in the blood. And gone. Gone. And they felt it too, all the survivors, Edenel, Coldagnir, the Ithiledhil, Finwë. All of them looking back to a past that was lost; all of them, in some way, supporting the others, simply by existing. And yet...

As for Sauron, Vanimórë doubted it affected him at all.

He alighted on a marble windowsill high up and stepped into the place that had been Sauron’s prison. It was empty, as he had known it would be, every beautiful room. In theory, all of the Timeless Halls was Sauron’s cage for, unless he could access the Portal, he could not leave and the Portal was guarded, always.

But Vanimórë knew he was not here. His father was nowhere within the Timeless Halls.

A glint of silver winked at him from a carved table. He strode toward it, picked it up. A Mirror shard, set into lapis lazuli. His blood became ice.

A Mirror shard. Why not? They existed everywhere, in every world, including these Halls.

He went to the chamber where he had moved the Portal before Dagor Dagorath. Someone stood before it, night-black hair cascading, then whipping out as Vanimórë’s presence travelled before him like a shockwave. The man spun. Celebrimbor, beautifully, hurtingly Fëanorion. His ice-brilliant eyes blazed.

‘I know,’ Vanimórë held out the shard. ‘He has gone.’

OooOooO

‘I looked for thee,’ Celebrimbor said without reproach or inflexion. ‘No-one knew, after, where thou hadst gone. And once we came here, we could not return to the Monument. It seems entirely part from everything.’

‘It is,’ Vanimórë murmured. ‘No-one comes there unless I permit it. Who would want to?’

‘But I knew the Portal, what it was capable of, and I suggested we look for thee.’

‘I am sorry. I was, for a very long time, at the Monument, or perhaps I was not, perhaps I drifted. Was not anywhere but everywhere.’ Vanimórë lifted one shoulder. ‘Yes, they told me, Edenel and Coldagnir, that it was thine own suggestion to use the Portal to find me.’

‘When they learned what had happened—‘

‘Never mind,’ Vanimórë interrupted. ‘I am sorry I did not return. There was nothing I could do.’ But the words rang hollow.

‘ _Was_ there nothing? Art thou so sure?’ And the raw hope under that mask of pride and endurance, almost sent Vanimórë to his knees. He had locked himself within his mind for billions of years and never even _thought_ to try and comfort the other survivors. He had nothing to give, nothing at all, but still he could have tried.

He controlled his voice. ‘Fëanor was what he was and Melkor was himself. When Fëanor _became_...And once Fingolfin was gone, then nothing could have prevented Fëanor.’  
_Except me. I could have stopped it all. I could have fought, but_ they had the right!

 _I could have stopped it._ And he remembered his father’s mocking words: _‘Not your war, my son. Have you not said so? Or you would have stopped it already. You could blink and crush Melkor out of existence forever, he and all his servants—‘_

_And I should have._

But gods, in that last battle the Elves were _glorious_.

‘I have thought that the only way it could have ended without ending everything, is if Melkor were _not_ what he was,’ Celebrimbor’s words brought Vanimórë’s eyes back to him. And then he smiled, faint, twisted, but a genuine smile. ‘Because I cannot imagine my grandsire being any less than he was, of course. And would not want him to be.’

‘Neither can I imagine it,’ Vanimórë replied. ‘The Flame Imperishable exists in all universes, Celebrimbor, but so, unfortunately, does its opposite.’

‘Once before, thou didst come to me in extremity. I was half-mad, but not ready to die. They spoke of thee, Sauron and his servants. Slave, warrior, Sauron’s pet. And yet from thy hand I received mercy —‘

‘—And I permitted the Valar to drag thee to the Void —‘

Celebrimbor touched his hand, closed his fingers over it. Such a strong grip. ‘And yet, I thanked thee. And the Valar’s punishment was not thy blame. And now, in this extremity, there is no hope? Do not tell me that!’

‘To bring them back?’ Their eyes locked. ‘ _As they were_? To undo the past?’

‘Thou art a Creator. Unimaginably more than a god. Thou canst _create_ , is that not so? Turn back the wheel of Time itself?’

‘That Universe is _gone._ ’

Vanimórë rose, linked his fingers through Celebrimbor’s and walked to the Portal. Light skidded across it, crackled and bloomed. Unhesitatingly, he walked into it, drew Celebrimbor with him, into—

— The eternal dirge of the wind, the blowing of ochre dust veiling the impossibility of the Monument, half-Angband, half-Barad-dûr, piercing the dead no-land.

They walked under the vast gateway, over and through the empty, broken chambers and at last, to the only place he inhabited, the Tower itself. Inside, it was as beautiful as his mind could conceive and lonelier than a lost graveyard.

Celebrimbor said nothing as they walked up stair after stair to the very summit.

‘This is what is left,’ Vanimórë whispered.

Celebrimbor’s hair rippled in the dry, droning wind. He started out, into the nothingness that stretched forever.

‘There is nothing left, Celebrimbor Fëanorion, but this. I am sorry. I am so sorry.’

The wind blew like the arid exhalations of a desert tomb. Celebrimbor stretched out a hand as if to gather the dust into his hands and from that, recreate the past.

He said, after a long moment. ‘Yes, I can see why thou wouldst dwell here. Because even if there is nothing, this is what is left.’ Then he turned. ‘But thou art _beyond_ Time.’

‘I can look back,’ Vanimórë told him. ‘From here I can look back at it, as it was, all of it. Wouldst thou see it? No? Neither can I bring myself to look on it.’

Celebrimbor’s eyes shuttered. His lashes lowered, and when they rose again, the expression was blank as glass. Behind then, he was _thinking._ Vanimórë waited, wary of what next he would say, but his next words were mild enough.  
‘In all this time, I have seen thee on only two worlds.’

‘Yes,’ Vanimórë said slowly, wondering where this was leading, if anywhere. ‘I call then _Summerland_ and _The Clouds_. Others I have observed.’ He drew his hand across the air and another portal shimmered into being like a curtain, hovering in the air. ‘Billions of years passed before I took any interest in how the universes I danced had evolved. Time means nothing here, of course, but the worlds I observed, at the time of my looking, are far older than ours. Thousands of years have passed since Middle-earth, as we knew it, was even a memory. The world I named _Summerland_ , myself, Coldagnir and Edenel visited _before_ the End. _The Clouds,_ after. Both of them are similar, and each time, I went because of Maglor because, in them, he had wandered the Earth for Ages, and was alone. Sometimes, Tindómion is also there, and the Valar have kept them apart so that both have wandered and not found one another.’

Celebrimbor drew in a breath. ‘I admit,’ he said. ‘That I have watched different versions of events upon these worlds.’

‘It is a temptation is it not?’ Vanimórë said gently. ‘Imagine having the power to alter anything with a thought.’

‘I have.’ Levelly. ‘Hast _thou_?’

Vanimórë inclined his head. ‘Of course. Then thou wilt know that there are worlds where Melkor was destroyed, where the Eldar and the Elves of Middle-earth triumphed, where Fëanor did not die, or Fingolfin, or so many others. Those ones do not require my assistance, or meddling, as the Valar would no doubt say.’

Celebrimbor said fiercely: ‘ _Interfere,_ Vanimórë. Meddle. And yet...it is not the same. Always it comes to this: they are not _our_ world.’

‘No.’ Vanimórë turned away from the endless dreariness of the view. ‘I was... _happy_ when I opened the Timeless Halls to thee,’ he said simply, wonderingly. ‘When thou hadst ascended in glory. Yes, then. My lightest footstep shakes the foundations of the Timeless Halls, yet there, I could be among thee.’

Celebrimbor regarded him. ‘I know,’ he said at last, and pushed his long hands into his windblown hair. ‘What stops thee from going to these worlds and altering everything, making it as thou wouldst wish? Ruling them.’

‘Disinterest,’ Vanimórë replied. ‘I watched my father rule as an Overlord of Men. I have ruled a city-state, I was a God-Emperor. And all I ever wanted was to dwell among Elves. That is _all_ I ever wanted.’ His first daydream, whispered to his sister in the dank dark of their prison-room in Tol-in-Gaurhoth. _’Perhaps we are prisoners. Perhaps they will come and rescue us. We may belong to some-one...and...and one day we will leave this place and see...outside._ ***

The oldest yearning. The deepest. And, for a time, fully realised.

‘I do not want to rule these worlds. A god is always worshipped, save among other gods, and I never desired worship. I desire the...Eternal, the people of the Stars. My kin.’ Vanimórë smiled a little. ‘And cannot live on those worlds, not for long. I will do what I can to redress the wrongs, but I cannot call them home. They are not. It is like wearing ill-fitting clothes, enacting a part. I cannot be _myself_. Neither can Edenel or Coldagnir. It is wrong that we should have to conceal ourselves, but needful to do what we must.’

‘Where canst thou be thyself? Here?’ Celebrimbor made a sound of rejection. ‘There is _nothing here._ Not even hope,’ he ended.

‘Only memory,’ Vanimórë agreed softly. _Only regret and shame and rage._ ‘My father, however, is another matter. He has no compunction in using his power on these worlds.’

Celebrimbor’s lips thinned. ‘I spoke to him,’ he said. ‘That was the one thing we could always do: talk. In hate and fury, and mockery, but sometimes...’ Vanimórë nodded, he knew. Sometimes, one could loose oneself in the sheer exhilaration of speaking to Sauron, appreciating his mind, if nothing else.  
‘Oh, I did not tell him I observed other versions of him in different worlds, but we did discuss my grandfather’s Mirror and what it did. After a time, how long, I know not, he was permitted to go anywhere in the Halls. We guarded the Portal always, and observed him, but somehow he found that shard, and when alone he learned how it might be used.’ Celebrimbor gestured, a flick of one hand, impatient, annoyed. ‘He always was far too clever.’

‘No fault of thine. The Mirror shards are everywhere. But in other realities, a different Sauron can always return, even when banished to the Void, with no need of a shard.’  
And Vanimórë explained how his own presence was enough for Sauron, in the Void, to break out and return to the world. Any world. The Void was less of a prison for Sauron than the Timeless Halls had been.

‘And that is where he has gone?’ Celebrimbor demanded.

‘Oh, I would wager on it. I _know_ it. Shall we see?’ Vanimórë ran his fingers over the Portal, willing it to show him the world of the Clouds.

A room opened before them, showing Sauron sitting at a desk, Leon St. Cloud standing at his shoulder. The angle shifted to Sauron looking in a hand Mirror, and Celebrimbor hissed as he saw Sauron looking _out_ , jewelled and crowned.

The glass warped, bent and Sauron pushed a hand through, then the Mirror seemed to stretch, expand to create its own Portal and he was there, in the room. Vanimórë and Celebrimbor watched as he killed his ‘reflection’.

Celebrimbor spat out a curse and then, for no reason at all save that they both knew Sauron, he and Vanimorë started laughing. It was a strange sound amidst the loneliness, vital and filled with life. They held onto each other, convulsed with an almost hysterical mirth. There was grief there and hate and memory and even a begrudging admiration. It was laughter nonetheless.

‘That is...just the kind of thing he _would_ do,’ Vanimórë said at last, then heard Sauron’s words: _‘I want to see my son. He has never returned to the Timeless Halls. He is a damned romantic at heart, and I suspect he cannot bear it. I want to know where else he has been, and the meaning of his dreams — my dreams. An Ancient Universe. So, if Vanimórë will not come to me, I must go to him.’_

‘He was right about that.’ The laughter blew away on the ochre dust. ‘I did not want to come, but I suspected. His presence was too strong, breaking in. And from there,’ frustratedly, ‘I cannot see. I had to come to the Outside to confirm it. Very well. I shall meet him. I certainly cannot have him running around there, but I suspect he means to come to Valinor. The Valinor or that world.’

He lead Celebrimbor down the steps to the chambers he used, a memory of Sud Sicanna and Pashaar, and poured a glittering wine. As they drank, he told Celebrimbor what had passed and what he _intended_ to have pass: the release of the souls bound in Mandos, the downfall of the Valar. At the end, Celebrimbor said, ‘I would attempt this too. The only reason I remained here, the _only_ reason, was to guard him. But what else? This seems far too easy for thee, Vanimórë, and not thy main concern. Is it? Thou art marking time.’

‘It _is_ a concern. It is my fault. I did what I did in the midst of grief and madness.’ He stopped, his throat closed on the living memory of that moment, perpetual, undying: internal dissolution. ‘I...should have waited, should have planned. And I did not, so all the wrongness, the continuation of it...I have to do something.’

‘And thou art,’ Celebrimbor said, but he frowned. ‘Sauron spoke of the Ancient Universe?’

Vanimórë flicked him a look. ‘Thou hast dreamed it.’ A statement. He knew. He had seen Celebrimbor’s creation in his own dreams.

Celebrimbor turned time-haunted eyes on him. ‘Yes. Since the End. Yes. The first world. Eru, the Creator, lover and beloved, who became our gaoler. Loving him, and hating him. Rebelling, in the end. The Universe ending in battle and conflagration. I spoke of it, not to Sauron, but to Finwë and the _Ithiledhil_. Only one of them admitted to having dreamed: Culina. She does not speak, but our minds may converse.’

‘Culina. Yes, of course. Eru made a mistake,’ Vanimórë said grimly. ‘And one I give him the credit of regretting. He allowed us to be born into a different universe, but as virtual slaves of the Valar or, in my case, Sauron. So the gods whom he dismissed, despised as being defective, and their followers, became our masters.’ Celebrimbor nodded. ‘At the Dagor Dagorath, when the Elves began to die, and were swallowed by Angband’s throat. That was _Eru_ , gathering souls. After, he wanted to release those of us who had been in his children, to recreate another universe. But I denied him.’ He looked into the bubbling, silver wine. ‘And out of my denial, I slew myself, used the blood to create other universes, where those I loved might live. But, as I have said, I was too enraged, too drowned in grief and defiance, and so these new universes are very like to the old. So, my duty is to do what I can, yes, but also, I think, to go _back_. I think I already did.’ _I brought rebellion to the Ancient Universe. And I did it out of fury. Out of hate. It was my revenge on him._

Celebrimbor raised his brows, favoured him with a long, summing look, then said, ‘This is no fault of thine. Whatever thou might think. It is Eru.’

‘Is it not? _Is it not_?’ He rose quickly. ‘I just wanted a world where I could live among Elves, and what I created, out of pain, were only echoes of pain. And so I _must_ save them. Hells, I want to cup them in the palm of my hand, give them the universe and all its glories forever. I tried to.‘

‘And that,’ Celebrimbor’s hand came down on his arm like a vise. ‘Is why I created the Three, Vanimórë. To stay the wearing of Time, to allow the Elves to flourish, to thrive, not to fade and turn their faces to Valinor. To protect them.’

Vanimórë said ruefully, smiling: ‘That was laudable, but I? I am selfish to the core, Celebrimbor.‘

The sudden blaze of a smile reminded him poignantly of Fëanor. ‘Then we are as one.’

‘Perhaps we are,’ Vanimórë said slowly. ‘What I love, I love with all my soul, and what I do not, I care nothing for. In that I am _exactly_ like Eru. The only difference is, I recognise it. I could not claim thee. I had to let thee go.’

‘Thou didn’t give us godhood and absolute freedom, and yes, thou didst let us go.’ He clenched a hand, opened it, releasing. ‘And now, I _want_ thee to claim us, to not _let us go._ For I will _never_ believe there is no way for us to have the world we want. I will _never_ believe they are gone. Not forever.’ His eyes opened to the grief, and Vanimórë flinched before it. ‘I cannot. I am asking thee to reclaim them from this dust, this ending and — bring. Them. Back.’

Coming to his feet, Vanimórë cried: ‘What wouldst thou _have me do_?’

‘Anything.’ Celebrimbor said rising with him, his face set in the lines of a Fëanorion oath with all its heartbreak and power. ‘Everything. Whatever thou must.’

OooOooO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Narya wrote of a dream Claire had where she picked up a Mirror shard and was cut by it; the cut was there when she woke. Her vision of the White Cliffs of Dover and Gil dancing in a ballet is also borrowed from this gorgeous story. All of her visions are from stories with Claire in them, including The Ways of Paradox and Summerland.  
>   
> Bluebirds.  
>   
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/20938430/chapters/49779395  
>   
>   
>   
> ** Vanimórë’s conversation with Fëanor was in Magnificat of the Damned Book IV: Anvil. As is his conversation (and more) with Maglor. Who was the only person ever allowed to give him the _Anguish_.  
>   
>   
>   
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/8625451/chapters/37281161#workskin  
>   
>   
>   
> *** Vanimórë said this to his sister Vanya when he was a very young child. It is in Magnificat of the Damned Book I. Starfall. Chapter 16: ‘Suffer the Little Children’.  
>   
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/105749/chapters/147002  
>   
> To live among the Elves was his greatest desire, and only briefly realised.  
>   
> 


	13. ~ The Shadows cast by Light ~

  
  


**~ The Shadows cast by Light ~**

~ Gathered in the phial, the dust no longer seemed a dull ochre. It glittered like opalescent sand, but finer, almost liquid as it slid against the glass.

‘How strange,’ Vanimöré murmured. ‘I never noticed that.’

Celebrimbor flashed him a look. ‘Here is more than memory,’ he said. ‘More than desolation.‘ He tucked the phial against his heart. Vanimórë watched but said nothing.

This time, they did not use the stairs but rose, winged, from the summit of the tower, to come down beyond. All the land was rent by the descent of the Monument, gullies and deep troughs that the dust filled and the wind emptied again. Celebrimbor, alighting, strode toward a patch of darkness half-uncovered by the ceaseless wind. He looked down at the bodiless head, black hair like spilled silk, at the features, unchanged, unaltered by billions of years, the purple eyes blank jewels.

‘What didst thou do?’ he demanded. ‘Or...what did this?’

Vanimórë looked disinterestedly at his own face.  
‘All universes are birthed in violence,’ he quoted his own words. ‘I spilled my life to create...possibility.’ His smile was flat. ‘But I cannot die, or only briefly. And only I can harm myself. Not enough, however.’ He kicked at the head, sent it tumbling, face down, then turned away. The air shimmered and let them through into the Timeless Halls.

Celebrimbor said, after a moment: ‘Wilt thou speak to the _Ithiledhil_?’

‘Of course.’

‘They honour thee.’

‘For what?’ Vanimöré asked wearily.

‘For restoring their kin, the First Orcs, for absorbing that corruption. I was there. I saw it.’

Vanimöré grimaced. He had nearly become trapped in that nightmare were it not for Sauron. Which would have been one way, he supposed, of forgetting everything. The easy way.  
‘It is not so hard for them, I think,’ Celebrimbor watched him. ‘Hard enough, but they have for so long been a clan and they are all together, save for their chieftain.‘

‘Edenel will return, when this mission is done.’

‘And thou?’

‘I promise thee that. Not to dwell, but yes, I will return. And speaking of returns: Eru has not come here?’

‘No,’ Celebrimbor said definitely. ‘We would have felt him, just as we felt thee.’

‘I know where he is now,’ Vanimórë said. ‘But where has he been? Other worlds? Not the Monument; that is inaccessible even to him — unless I permit him ingress. I wonder...if he too, has made his own place from the ashes of his own dead universe.’ He thought of monumental towers, impossible gardens, endless lovely, unreal and lonely rooms...

The Portal glimmered, always quiet unless one with power were looking into it. As they approached, it sparked. Vanimöré played his fingers across the surface as though plucking harp-strings.

‘So, show me what thou hast been doing,’ Celebrimbor invited, and Vanimórë cast him a glance, knowing him far too intelligent to refer to their previous conversation directly, but also that this, in some way, would lead back to it.  
‘I am sure thou art quite familiar with what I am doing or thou wouldst not be thyself.’ He put up his brows, and Celebrimbor returned a close-lipped smile.

‘Well,’ Vanimórë acceded. ‘So far, I have only visited what they call the Twenty-First Century, twice and one other, hundreds of years earlier. That was brief.’ He did not speak of that, the burning time, but Celebrimbor knew. He made a gesture of repudiation not at Vanimórë but the act.  
‘But, as I am sure thou hast observed, I need fifty or sixty years to earn and amass wealth, because wealth is power, there and because I am not Sauron, I do not wish to rule, and so I use the other way: money. I am not tied to Time, however, and there are many realities.’

The Portal showed a vast, ruined city, tall buildings, their banks of windows shattered, roads littered with rusting vehicles.  
‘So-called civilisation collapsed. Climate change, or a plague, or a war. Any or all together. There are many possibilities.’

‘Yes, and thou wouldst go to such a place? It is as desolate as the Monument.’

‘Not quite. There is life. And there are survivors. A few.’

Two figures walked into view, tiny among the ruined skyscrapers. A blustering wind tossed rubbish, rattling it along the street.

‘Life is resilient. Until—‘ He moved his fingers again. ‘The Sun becomes a Red Giant and swallows the inner planets — by which time there will be no life on Earth — then collapses into a white dwarf.’

‘I have seen. All stars carry the seeds of their own destruction within them.’

‘Some civilisations worshipped the Sun, sacrificed thousands in his name, for the Sun brings both life and death.’ Vanimórë smiled a little, quoted: ‘ _“And I saw an angel standing in the sun._ ”’* And he was there, the god himself, Coldagnir, Nemrúshkeraz, Urphiel, winged and armed, closing his eyes in the ecstasy of his own immense destruction. ‘Coldagnir will then go back into the energy that creates the universe to be born again, as another star in some distant nebulae. Nothing is ever ended.’ He sighed, roused as if from a dream. ‘If Maglor were in that world or Tindómion or a few others I have known, of course I would go.’

Celebrimbor frowned. ‘So would I.’ Then: ‘I wanted to create a paradise,’ he said sombrely. ‘Or something like it.’

‘Even after civilisations cease, even after plague or nuclear war, it _can_ become beautiful again.’ Vanimórë’s hand gestured again, showing cities melting back into nature, animals grazing where streets had been. ‘It can never go back to how it was, because there would be far too few people, but there would be societies. However, it cannot be _left_ like that. Observe. These are—‘

‘I know what they are,’ Celebrimbor said tautly. ‘Yes, humans came to this did they not? I discussed such things with Sauron, as Annatar, and Fëanor explored the theory even in Valinor. But it is not what I would call a clean source of energy, and so I dismissed it.’

‘If contained and maintained it is at least a positive use of the discovery, but without maintenance, the water cooling those nuclear fuel rods will evaporate, eventually, and then...’

‘Yes, and then.’

‘I will deal with it from the Monument, or Coldagnir will contain it. That is one area where I will intervene, but otherwise...’  
Vanimöré shook his head, then explained. ‘Eru is not, or so I judge, going to prevent me helping the Elves. _He_ wants them, too. Gods can influence Mortals and events, _to a degree_ but if I, from here, or the Monument, meddle as the _Overmind_ , start changing, moulding a world, I believe that Eru _would_ do something. I do not know,’ he interrupted himself impatiently. ‘Perhaps he would not care, but how can I risk these worlds becoming our battlegrounds? And so I do not change things or intervene _too_ much. Besides—‘ His mouth curved dryly. ‘I am too accustomed to ruling. Where would it end? Melkor wanted ultimate control of all. Eru tried to control us in the Ancient Universe, and the Valar desired to rule the Elves. Admittedly, I enjoyed stretching my wings as Prince of Sud Sicanna, but I _loathed_ being God-Emperor of the Imperium.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it was not what I wanted to do,’ Vanimórë said simply. ‘But there was nothing else, nothing constructive, that I _could_ do.’

‘Fëanor _wanted_ thee to come with us to New Cuivíenen.’ Celebrimbor reminded him.

Unforgettable. _’Come back to me_. To us.’** And a kiss, light as a brush of flame against his mouth, intoxicating, tempting.

‘No,’ he whispered, both to the brilliant memory of Fëanor (no universe, no _world_ seemed complete without his presence, and it was not) and to Celebrimbor. ‘I am Sauron’s son. Still, and always. I had no place among thee. And New Cuivíenen was but a resting place for thee; a star in a fading world. A place to heal, or try to. There was no true home for thee on Middle-earth, Celebrimbor. The time of the Elves was already over, and the cataclysm was coming.’ He moved restlessly and, as if answering his thought, the Portal showed a giant asteroid tumbling inexorably toward the Earth. Something exploded upward from the planet’s surface, blazing a path like a thrown spear that intercepted the asteroid. The detonation of their collision blanked the Portal white.

And that was all he remembered, his physical body destroyed in an incandescence of grief and fury and love. He was a god, and could re-embody himself, but he had not done so instantly. The pain was too great, and so he had drifted, not seeing the deadly rock fragments tear across the north of the world. It had been something; the bolide would have been a planet-killer had it not been shattered. But it was not enough.

_Nothing I do is ever enough. There is always a flaw._

_The dark vein in the universe._

And he remembered himself, in the Ancient Universe, or in a dream, saying that to Eru. ‘ _It is the flaw that goes to the heart of the crystal. The crack in the world._ ’ He frowned, pursuing that thought, but Celebrimbor’s intent, brilliant eyes, his presence, dissolved it.

‘I suppose we might have done differently, after,’ he acknowledged, with a bitter, fleeting smile. ‘Built a world in our own image.’ But then his father had unleashed Ungoliant in Valinor...  
‘We knew,’ Celebrimbor told him. ‘We knew it could not be forever.’  
  
‘No,’ Vanimöré answered gently. ‘It was more than time for all of thee to ascend. Past time for thee to throw down the Valar and take the Timeless Halls as thy place.’  
  
For a moment, the Portal blazed with the memory: _An army riding across a bridge of Light. The fireflower dorsal of the House of Fëanor rippling in the snapping wind, the sapphire and white star of the House of Fingolfin, the banner of Finrod, the glittering emblem of Gil-galad; the star and bow of Beleg, black on green, the helm and sword of Túrin-reborn, Lómion's Gondolindhrim sable set with Fingolfin’s star. Eärendil's Silmaril, the black moon of the_ Ithiledhil, _the white flower of Doriath, carried by Elúred and Elúrin, the purple-and-black of the_ Khadakhir, _the leaf-and-crown of the Greenwood._ ***  
  
Enough. He had shown it to Maglor and Tindómion as they had the right, but he could not look on it again.  
  
‘When Powers war, people die and worlds burn,’ he ended, a hot coal in his throat.  
  
‘They die anyhow,’ Celebrimbor said. ‘They burn anyway.’  
  
‘Not in the blink of _my_ eyes.’ He spun on his feet, fingers flashing across the Portal. ‘But I have ensured for the future on these worlds at least. I have very specific instructions on what will happen to Apollyon Enterprises if I am gone for a long period of time. Nothing is left to chance. And no-one knows all there is to know except myself, Edenel and Coldagnir, and,’ he added with a slanting smile, ‘thou, now that I show it to thee.’ An image appeared. ‘As the Noldor and the Dwarves delved to create the cities under the Ered Luin that would provide a haven during and after the cataclysm, so have I done similarly. Not so great, not so deep, but adequate, and far from the only ones. Many governments have built such places. They have their own energy source, can grow their own foods, and hold stocks of food that will last decades. There are also laboratories for the production of medicines.’ Celebrimbor leaned forward, fascinated. ‘Apollyon Enterprises heads a great many smaller companies. I began _this_ project decades ago, when governments began constructing underground nuclear shelters in the event of a global war. Later, some were abandoned. I purchased them and they are expanded all the time. They are like towns under the surface of the world, and fully staffed, kept operational.‘  
  
‘Incredible,’ Celebrimbor murmured. ‘Thou hast not been idle.’ It was almost teasing.  
  
‘I was idle for a long time. One must do something, and it is easy enough.’ Too easy sometimes. ‘All this is part of the Asterion Corporation. Scientific research. Apollyon Enterprises is the holding company. Myself, in effect. It produces nothing save wealth.’  
  
‘And how canst thou know whom to trust to serve thee?’ An apt enough question coming from one who had been deceived.  
  
‘They are easy enough to find. They have a certain empathy, an appreciation of beauty, a longing for something out of reach, a touch of the _fey_ , one might say. Visionaries and dreamers. Brilliant misfits who long for a better world. Scientists too, who so much enjoy unlimited resources. I screen them all.’ He showed a room, banks of computers, people sitting before them. Long corridors, rooms of equipment, laboratories, generators, hydroponics, residential areas including a restaurant, bar, games and meditation room, a cinema, pool, gym and small but excellent medical facilities. None of the staff but for the door-guards were in uniform save lab-coats, but each one wore a small triangular pin, silver on black: the sword-palms of Vanimórë’s personal insignia.  
‘On worlds where a collapse of civilisation does occur even if I am elsewhere, they know what to do: seek out survivors.’ ****  
  
Celebrimbor shot him an acute glance. ‘These people are _Khadakhir_?’  
  
‘No, but bound to an ideal, which can be just as strong a bond. No families, or estranged from them, orphans sometimes, no children, either divorced or never married, no long-term partners although some relationships inevitably do occur. That does not trouble me, but I would never set one loyalty against another.’ He thought, with a pang, of Howard, then spoke into the Portal. ‘2024 Asterion Haven 05. This is Lucien Steele. Report.’  
  
The people sat up as if jerked on strings. A woman with grey-black hair piled on top of her head responded with alacrity: ‘Sir.’  
  
Vanimöré saw Celebrimbor listening and knew that he too, had scarcely been idle all this time and had watched and learned. The terms of the report were clearly not entirely alien to him. Like Fëanor, were he here, Celebrimbor would have utilised the Portal, unable to resist. He had remained in the Timeless Halls to guard Sauron, but he had watched; he had learned.  
  
‘Thank you,’ Vanimöré ended. ‘Personal inspection in two days.’  
  
‘Yes, Sir.’  
  
‘How likely is it that Sauron or Eru could infiltrate this?’ Celebrimbor asked.  
  
‘With Eru, very likely,’ Vanimórë acknowledged soberly. ‘If he were to shield Sauron or one of his followers for reasons of his own, then yes. Eru can always conceal himself from me. But first they would have to know about it. And Eru can see anything from the Outside but, like me — we give up so much power, and even memory, embodying on a world — he might not even recollect it.’  
  
Celebrimbor frowned. ‘There must be a way for thee to connect with the greater part of the Overmind — thyself — that remains outside.’  
  
Vanimórë narrowed his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘There must.’  
  
‘We must think on it. Go on.’  
  
‘Well, I can tell thee now, that neither Eru nor Sauron have come anywhere near knowing about that particular project.’  
  
‘And the governments of these lands do not care?’  
  
‘I have found most governments care little if it does not threaten their national security, aids them in some way, does their research for them — and shares it — and does not cost them anything.’ Vanimórë told him. ‘And their acceptance can be...encouraged. Apollyon Enterprises heads a global empire, but all of it is legal — at least so far they have not made gods illegal! — and every company pays its taxes. I have no time for bureaucracy.’ Possibly the result of being Sauron’s son who simply commanded and made certain his commands were followed. Vanimórë was not so different.  
‘I will not tolerate interference, and arrange matters so that none occurs.’  
  
‘And thou doth not, of course, control them,’ Celebrimbor remarked straight-faced.  
  
Vanimórë widened his eyes. ‘Not control. _Of course._ I simply wish to pursue my work, and so the authorities are _encouraged_ to allow me to, just as the majority of people are encouraged to forget me. The latter I can accomplish easily enough as Lucien Steele. When greater pressure needs bringing to bear, I leave, and come to the Monument. From there, I merely direct their minds elsewhere. The work of the Asterion Corporation is important and must be allowed to continue unhindered.’  
  
The Portal glinted and sparked showing, now, a Scottish night, the Blackwater like a pit of nothingness under a dark sky. Above it, the two Fëanorions were like jewels set in black velvet.  
  
Celebrimbor drew in a long, quiet breath, reaching out his hand to the figures of Maglor and Tindómion.  
‘I have seen them before in this world but just to see—‘  
  
‘I know.’ He settled a hand on the hard shoulder as Celebrimbor’s voice cracked across like brittle iron. ‘Yes, I know.’  
  
‘And they are exactly the same.’  
  
‘No matter how _lost_ I was when I danced the universes, I could never forget their faces, or any of thee. They are the same, in every world, mind, body, spirit.’  
  
‘And thou _wilt_ save them all of them?’  
  
‘I must rectify my errors.’ He regarded Celebrimbor, knowing what passed in that mind. ‘But it is lonely there, on those worlds. Thinks’t thou the Monument is, or here, with all of them gone? It is _nothing_ compared to living _there._ In the end, that it why I create Lucien Steele, with all his immeasurable wealth. At least one can be oneself, alone.’ He flicked his fingers disdainfully across the Portal to show his homes across the world: immense, gorgeous; his private jets, his cars...and a cynical smile formed, derisive. None of them mattered, yet were part of the barrier built around himself, the distance he maintained. ‘I act, always. And then, when I find those I seek for, even then, they do not know me, not truly and they...they look the same and _are_ the same, in their souls, but they are almost strangers. We have no shared history and they owe me nothing.’  
  
Celebrimbor raised his brows.  
‘Nothing.’  
  
‘Nothing,’ Vanimórë repeated firmly. ‘If my vision had not been so flawed, they would not be wandering the worlds; their families, those they loved would not be condemned.’  
  
‘I hear thee, and I understand completely. So near yet so far. And what of Sauron?’  
  
‘Well, I cannot have him ruling those worlds either. He probably would make a good job of it,’ Vanimórë acknowledged ruefully. ‘But it would be a merciless rule, and I should know. Everyone would be slaves whether they believed it or not.’ He gripped Celebrimbor’s shoulder. ‘I will bring him back. He _is_ my responsibility.’  
  
Celebrimbor sent him a faint smile. ‘I know thou shalt.’ The expression faded. ‘And now, there is something I would show _thee._  
  
  
  
Celebrimbor lead him into the palace, through the vast entranceway, and into the great hall. Vanimórë stopped dead.  
  
‘I said I understood,’ Celebrimbor’s voice was soft only because it was caught under his heart. ‘So near, yet so far.’  
  
Celebrimbor’s own loneliness had, here, found expression: life-sized statues of those loved and gone. Fëanor, Fingolfin, Finarfin, their children and grandchildren, and others too. They looked absolutely real, frozen in a moment of time; their robes and gemmed hair stirred in the soft breeze. Their faces were lovely and fierce as a hunting falcon.  
  
Vanimórë had long ago burned out tears; there were none left to shed. But he made a sound in his throat and pressed a hand into his stomach, curling over it to contain the mental wound.  
  
He closed his eyes, then opened them again and let the agony run through him, savaging as it went, opening him. He walked forward, reach out, but then drew back. He did not want to pollute their transcendence.  
  
He felt Celebrimbor at his side, heard the same short, sharp breaths of stress and grief.  
‘I _want. Them. Back._ Vanimöré.’ His head was raised as if facing a hurricane of impossibility and defying it. ‘I want them _back._ ’  
  
‘ _As do I_ ’ Vanimórë’s cry shivered the immense columns. He wrenched Celebrimbor to face him. ‘When a Creator imagines something it becomes _real_.’ He thought, with a scald of gall, of Elgalad. ‘I considered this: peopling the Monument with those loved and lost, giving them life, but they would be an echo, only. Just as these are.’  
  
‘But we _are_ of thee,’ Celebrimbor shouted back. ‘We were, in the universe that is no more. Were we _not_ born of thy thought?’  
  
Vanimórë stared at him. ‘Yes.’ And again, he remembered the Time before Time and Eru’s words: _Dost thou not understand? Thou art holding them within thee. And there they will remain unless the Universe is created. There is nothing here of Life except thee. Give thyself up to him, Vanimórë, give him what is within thee._ *****  
  
But he had refused, and warred with Eru and created the universe.  
  
_Within me._  
  
But that universe was _gone_ , and he had destroyed himself, given his lifeblood, his god-ichor to create the others, scattering off through space-time.  
  
‘I have done it,’ he said. ‘In all these realities. I made all these universes. I will not unmake them, Celebrimbor.’  
  
‘Then do not! I see what it is: Thou knowest not a tithe of what thou canst do. Is that no so?’ Celebrimbor pressed against him, the light, icy eyes burning into his. ‘And why? Because — and thou hast said it — thou art Sauron’s son, and were a slave under him and under Melkor. Thou dost not trust thyself—‘  
  
‘Perhaps I do not!’  
  
‘—And, being Sauron’s slave, thou wert accustomed to serving a greater power. That hangs over thy head like an invisible ceiling: That thou shouldst not have power. Prince of Sud Sicanna?’ Celebrimbor mocked. ‘Thou couldn’t have ruled all the South—‘  
  
‘— I did!’  
  
‘As God-Emperor, and what was that? It could have been all Arda.’  
  
‘I did not _want it_!’ Vanimöré flung at him, pushing him away.  
  
‘And thou wilt do nothing for thyself, wilt thou? Thou hast never deserved it, or so thou wouldst say. Ask thyself if this is not why thou wilt go again and again, onto these worlds where thou must be alone. Thou wouldst do it even if there was no reason, because it is a way of _gelding thyself_. It is why thou hast never tried to connect with the greater part of thyself that exist on the Outside.’  
  
Vanimórë glared at him, warning, but Celebrimbor caught his arm.  
‘Accept what thou art. Everything thou hast created has been out of agony and pain and hatred — and love.’ He spoke quietly now, but through his teeth. ‘Own thy power and _do something for thyself for once._ Do it for love, do it because I cannot bear to live for an eternity without them. Canst thou?’  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

~ _It’s a memento._

Martha sat up in the luxurious bed in the Dorchester and stared ahead.

‘A memento, or a...a clue,’ she said aloud.

Despite the wine and champagne, she had not been able to sleep for hours, and when she did, it was uneasy, broken. She reached out her hand and drew the necklace from the side table. Even in the dimness, the diamond flickered with unearthly light. Her thumb traced the mark on the back, palm trees and swords. A google search had brought up precisely nothing, and the symbol was not in the deep files of the DDE, but she knew it meant _something._

A promotional gift, he had said, no different to the gift to Howard, but the nagging feeling persisted: it was a memento. _In case he doesn’t come back or...it’s a clue to something._

Come back from _where_? And a clue to _what_?

OooOooO

~ He stared down at the Blackwater, meeting its inimical and unblinking obsidian gaze with his own. The loch seemed to growl; warning, a panther before it launches itself for the kill.

Maglor imagined what the Silmaril might do to even a God who held it that long in darkness and obsession. _Keep away, leave me! It is mine._  
He wondered if the Valar had sent one of their servants for that purpose: to guard it until the end, when they would reclaim it. But that servant had long gone mad.

He found he did not care what denned down there, on the edge of awakening. His sight was fixed on the moment his family, those he loved, would be released from the tyranny of the Valar. To the Hells with anything or anyone that stood in the way, Valar or Maia or unnamed creature out of the ancient world.

The moon tinged the clouds with bluish light. A hill-fox yipped and an owl called. Behind him, the mountains crouched, hoary giants in the night.

He had not been able to sleep. It was strange, or perhaps not, that the more years unspun behind him, the less he felt tied to the world and its rhythms. It seemed, at times, to fall away from him, become a ghost, a shadow.

But those who had come here, to this place, they were not; they were bright spots in a dying hearth. Even, odd to say, Marcus St. Cloud, whom he could not think of as Vanimórë, or not the one from Barad-dûr. A different person now, perhaps the result of his upbringing, or something that had been there all along, bowed under Sauron’s hand, had been allowed to emerge and blossom. Anyhow, he would not revenge himself on someone who no longer existed, no more would his son.

The other one...The one who was so careful with him... _he_ was quite different. What, Maglor wondered, had their relationship been in that other universe now gone.

‘It is time and past time,’ he said aloud.

‘Yes,’ Tindómion replied. The moon drifted free of cloud and lit his face, tracing it white and luminous, flashed from the silver eyes. He leaned his brow against Maglor’s, then drew back. They settled their lap harps, drew them back.

The song began as a soft pluck of notes, plangent as a nightingale’s voice, then deepened to an old, old sorrow.  
‘And the fading glory dies,  
Comes like autumn in the rain,  
Like the smoke of dead pyres,  
After battle is lost  
When the blood has sunk  
Into the dark earth  
Drinking down the courage  
Muting it in death  
And the Earth does not weep  
Or know the taste of what we were  
And the seas have sunk the ruins  
Buried the graves of  
Those who burned like Light  
For the Doom feeds on grief,  
On brightness and on beauty  
Folly or shining bravery  
Dulled like old silver  
Lost on the ocean floor’

The Noldolantë, or a scrap of it, running down toward the end. He had added to it, over the years, after losing himself. He had been at his nadir then, when composing the last dark lines, and the ending had seemed without hope.

Below them, the Blackwater seemed to shiver, as if some stray breeze slapped across the water. As one, father and son stilled the harps’ strings.

The water seemed to bloom with silver flashes, as if a light were moving upward from the depths, bursting and fading back.

_The Silmaril answers thee,_ Tindómion whispered into his mind.

_It would seem so._

And the presence _was_ more aware. At first it had merely been an atmosphere now, in some way, it knew of the threat against it. _Keep away_!

They began to play again and now Tindómion’s voice joined his, the rich tenor a perfect match, before rising into the descant. And these words were new, made after Tindómion walked into his arms in Summerland. His father’s face, his own face and silver eyes. And there was no grief in this, only the crackling uprush of flame.

‘They would have us burn down  
Into ash and penitence,  
Weeping in the shadows,  
On our knees and broken,  
But the Fire conquers Doom,  
And breaks the gaoler’s bars,  
And fate will bow to Flame.’

The loch seethed, rose, and a great wave raced to north and south, east and west, crashing white on the dark and stony shores. As it withdrew in fuming fury it left glimmering silver in its wake then, slowly, slowly, the water grew still.

For from Flame we were born,  
And by Fire we endure  
‘Til the Flame burns the Void into Light.  
  
They rose, covered their harps and walked down to the shore. Tindómion stooped to touch the wetness left by the wave-lash and rose. His fingers seemed coated with starlight. Maglor touched his hand, and the residue transferred itself to his own flesh. He felt as if electricity sparked across his skin. He held his hand up to the sky.

‘The Silmaril also wakes,’ he said.

OooOooO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * From The Book of Revelations.  
> ** Magnificat of the Damned Book IV: Anvil. Chapter 7: The Eve of Departure.  
> *** Magnificat of the Damned Book IV: Anvil. Chapter 13. Blood of my Soul  
> *** In case I write Vanimórë, Coldagnir and Edenel in a dystopian, or post apocalyptic future. Wink wink.  
> **** Magnificat of the Damned. Book IV. Anvil. Chapter 11. Time Was. Time Is. Time is Past.


	14. ~ The Tides of our Souls ~

  
  


**~ The Tides of our Souls ~**

~ He watched the light flare and fade over the dark hills. A beacon, a casting of Power.  
If anyone else were to see it, they might dismiss it as lightning, like that which again played and flickered far to the West, a statement of intent that would never be realised. The Valar were aware and sent out their warning, but they did not know what was about to descend upon them.

But this silver illumination was not lightning. Eru could taste its raw power on his tongue like starlight, though the Silmarils were nothing to him save in what they —in all universes — contained.

To return to his wholeness, to reclaim all that was, would be and had been, Fëanor required all three gems. What remained of him when Manwë and Námo dragged his soul to their feet and cursed it for arrogance was scarcely Fëanor at all. At the end of his life, he was mad, made so by the malice of the gods. And yet, that had been a blessing, if one believed in such things.

_But the Silmarils served their purpose, Fëanor, and in ways thou couldst not imagine._

It was no foresight but some kind of prescience had motivated the creator, even if Fëanor were unaware of it.

_To keep his soul safe. And others, too._

How Manwë and Námo had raged knowing that what they cursed was but a shell.

_Thou wert always the most vile, the most vindictive. Brothers indeed, in thy narrow malice._

And still Eru did not know how he had created them, what shadows lay within him that should find focus and power in those two and infect others.

His boots hissed through the lagging ripples of seawater, and stopped.

The stone looked like nothing in particular. When the tide came in, it was half submerged, but once it had stood taller than a man. All the village was ringed by these menhirs, raised by men thousands of years ago who recognised the power that dwelled in the Blackwater. Some of the stones crouched among bush or tree, one was built into the wall of a house; sheep scratched on them, birds alighted, winter frost rimed them, and the northern gales whipped past and over them.

Throughout the year their ancient power slumbered, save on certain days. Even then, few knew how to wake them, their energy the merest flicker of potentially. But on this Solstice eve, Eru determined, they would rouse from sleep and _scream_. Portals would open to other worlds and to the Outside, but only he or Vanimórë could effect that, and Vanimórë would not consider it: to Valinor he would take the Elves and the others, but not beyond. As in the old universe, he would open the Timeless Halls only after they had been through the fires of apotheosis, for only gods could enter the Outside and survive.

He laid his hands on the stone’s grainy surface, felt it begin to thrum faintly like an engine beginning deep underground. It warmed. By the time the Solstice came all of them would be active.

OooOooO

~ Leon had experienced no difficulty in booking a holiday home. By car, it was four miles from the village but as the eagle flew, less than one, and the property was elevated so that one could see the towers and roofs of Duirinish Hall.

Carron Lodge was old, exquisitely renovated and private, set within the beautiful grounds of the larger Carron Hotel, which also provided meals and a housekeeping service. Leon, getting out of the car and taking a breath of the pine-scented air, felt his heart race hot and fast. His brother was so close.  
_Marcus,_ he whispered into the aether. (And Marcus, in Duirinish Hall, stopped as fire trailed up his spine, and then turned his head as if into a kiss). _Marcus._

Dinner was excellent and after, Mairon told him to set out a chess board.

Over it, Leon stole a look at the one who was so like and unlike his own father. It was, still a struggle. At times he could almost forget that this Mairon had killed and _absorbed_ the other. The scene was etched on Leon’s mind, raw and terrible, but the impossibility of it was skittish, hard to grasp even for one who had himself known death.

As if hearing his thoughts, which he could, Mairon said, ‘Yes. Tell me about thy death.’ He raised a hand. ‘About _being_ dead.’

Leon would rather have forgotten it, but the ember-lit eyes were irrefusable.  
‘It was grey,’ he said slowly, twisting a Knight between his fingers. ‘Grey and.... not cold, but a kind of dead chill in the air. Like musty tombs long unopened. I remember being surprised that my soul could feel such a thing. There were endless passages leading to empty chambers, corridors that ended in blank walls; a labyrinth of nothing. A prison. It seemed to go on forever. I think it did. And I saw no-one until _he_ came. But there were others. I could not see them, but I could feel them passing like wraiths, hear their cries.’

Mairon steepled his fingers under his chin; with a jolt, Leon recalled Vanimórë using the same mannerism.

‘He was robed in the same dusty grey as the stone, a head like a skull, or a human mantid, long teeth, black eyes. Unfeeling yet _hungry_ ’

‘Námo.’ Humour glinted unexpectedly in Mairon’s eyes, like a memory of something amusing. ‘Did he speak?’

‘Briefly. He said: _Welcome back to thy dwelling-place, son of Darkness, until the ending of all things and beyond._ Then,’ he repressed a shudder. ‘He...licked me. All of my body. His tongue was long, black, cold....’ Námo had spent longer in doing that, than in speech. It felt like Kristi’s rape, unclean and feculent. A violation of his soul.

‘No doubt it is the only pleasure he ever gets,’ Mairon said. ‘You have no idea how delighted I am to thwart that repellent old bastard.’ He moved a Bishop. He was, Leon had realised, an expert at this game. ‘And I am looking forward to seeing him brought down. Again. It _is_ so rewarding. I could witness it again and again.’

Leon rather thought he would like to see it, too. ‘And then...my Lord?’

‘The next move is my son’s. And I would wager the world on what it will be.’ He smiled.

‘Why do you want to see him? I mean, now?’ _Why kill my father to do it_?

‘As I told you, he would never have sought me out in the Timeless Halls, but once he knows I am here — and he will know — he will consider himself obligated to find me and return me.’ The smile deepened. ‘My son has always achieved the most, been his most authentic, one might say, when _fighting_ : He is motivated by hate, desire, love, rage. A weapon is no use at all left in its sheath. Here, he has nothing to sharpen himself on save a sense — misplaced, in my mind — of justice. He really needs me to actually achieve anything, not just exist. Oh, do not make the mistake in thinking he is like you, or how you used to be,’ he amended as Leon flushed. ‘Vanimórë crushed all desire for love or validation or approbation out of his soul when he killed (or thought he killed) his sister. He is a ultimately a warrior who _needs something to fight_. Often it is his own soul, more often it is me. He needs to whet himself upon me to keep his edge.’

‘What do you want him to do?’ Leon asked quietly. ‘More than what he has already done?’

Mairon put up his brows. Is that not obvious? To become what he could be.’

‘Then....you don’t think what he is doing is important, my Lord?’

‘What he _did_ , yes. You think I am not proud of what he became? I was. I am. And not in the least surprised, though it was a close-run thing. But what he does now, I would call irrelevant.’ Mairon suddenly swept his hand across the chess board, sent the pieces tumbling. ‘Naturally he wishes to aid any Elves left on Middle-earth. It is not their world any longer, that much is obvious even to an observer. I would have wagered, well...everything on him doing just what he is doing. They cannot be themselves, here and it appears to be hard enough for any _Mortal_ who does not conform; for an Elf it would be infinitely worse, forever hiding, using glamour to become at one with the world, and that only barely. But it presents him no challenge at all, throwing down the Valar, taking the Elves into godhood. And Vanimórë _always_ needs a challenge. But that is partly it of course,’ he reflected. ‘When he comes to these worlds he leaves most of his true self behind. It is like gelding a stallion. But...he thinks he deserves that kind of punishment.’

‘I saw nothing of that,’ Leon said. ‘And his power is...it’s _explicit._ He is hardly a gelding.’

‘To you,’ Mairon dismissed. ‘You have the heritage to see past the glamour, but you have not seen what he _truly_ is. Very few have. The world would break under his power.’ Red fire overwhelmed the lavender of his eyes, burning like the deeps of the Sammath Naur. ‘He hates it, will not accept it, but it is what he is. He can unmake gods, create universes, and still he would rather flagellate himself.’ He picked up a glass as wine, red as fresh blood and sipped. ‘There are ancient mysteries to explore. He know he must come to it eventually but he hesitates, because of the one who betrayed him, because of the pain. Fool. I must, I really _must_ slap some sense into him.’

OooOooO

~ The days were quiet after the Blackwater answered Maglor’s Song, but they were not calm. The building energy could almost be seen rising higher and higher on the horizon.

A sense of waiting came down on them, on the whole village. Several holiday-makers left, and cottages stood empty. The villagers themselves might be seen conversing in small groups and, sometimes, looking at the sky to the west. And, each night, that silent lightning played on the rim of the sea.

Elgalad gazed out of his bedroom window, across the old wall that separated the house from Duirinish Hall. His hand closed about the Mirror Claire had left on the sand a few days ago. She had not entirely been sleepwalking; it was more than that, but she had thought it a dream and so he had not roused her from it. But when she walked away, the Mirror remained, and Elgalad had picked it up. He knew well enough what it was.

‘Yes, fascinating,’ Eru had said, but with a flash to his eyes both dark and regretful. ‘Fëanor.’ The word filled and burst on the air leaving echoes behind it; echoes of love, echoes of hate, and something that sounded like and was desire. ‘Claire dreams,’ he murmured, turning the Mirror so that it flashed. ‘But soon the dreams will end, and dawn will come.’

Will it? Elgalad wondered now. And what would that new dawn bring? Eru seemed so sure, yet Vanimöré stood in the way.

Vanimöré.

He closed his eyes. He needed no Mirror to remember the past, but to _look_ and see again, as if played upon a television screen, his old life, had been more shocking even than memory.

 _I was born for thee._ His words to Vanimórë and true ones. But it was not until his capture, taken to Dol Guldur that he had known whom and what he was.

_I loved him and loved others too, because that was what I was — am — the part of Eru that unconditionally loved, a memory of him as he first woke to the possibility of creation, and wanted to share it._

He could remember, like tasting a fiery spirit that lingers on the tongue, the passion of Vanimórë. _Such a cold fire._ Such an inferno of self-immolation, even then. Now, he denied himself comfort, solace, had denied it for so long that he no longer required it and did not perhaps, even comprehend such a thing, at least not for himself.  
Once, Elgalad had walked among the gods, a thought waiting to be born, but was never one of them. Even then he yearned for that dark fire, and was drawn to it still.

_But I — Eru — dealt him a wound he will never recover from._

Vanimórë had always feared he would take too much; in fact he had taken nothing, would accept nothing. Even in the act of sex — especially in that — part of him held aloof, watched from behind glass, unmoved. He never wholly lost himself because slavery had attuned him to _perform_ , to ensure he was doing that which would give pleasure, and end the rape sooner. He had learned that under Melkor and later, Sauron, even though his father had known precisely and exactly how to force Vanimöré, unwilling, hating himself, to pleasure. It was still rape, and when abuse continues unremitting, the victim finds ways to deal with it. Day after day, year after year, and in Vanimöré’s case, Age upon Age.

There was no what-might-have-been Vanimöré waiting to be uncovered by a patient lover, though he had been gentle with Elgalad because it was his nature to try and protect those more vulnerable. But what he was, or what he had been moulded into, was real; it was not a mask that could shatter or be taken off. He was only, and always, what he was.

If Eru had not wanted his firstborn and only son punished more severely than any, then yes, Vanimöré could have been a different person. But he was the spark that had touched off rebellion, and Eru had grieved and mourned and _hated_ him for that. For the downfall of paradise, and the death of the Ancient universe.

And so, because Vanimöré was what he was, he would not accept anything, he gave and thought what he gave was worthless. Because he was.

And Elgalad, being whom and what _he_ was, accepted it. All of it.  
  
It had been Elgalad’s own intrinsic nature (and Eru’s command) to give Vanimórë what he needed: his lost innocence, but Vanimöré, while eventually conceding their relationship, never allowed himself the comfort of love and took so little from it; a few grains of sand that slipped through his fingers and, at the end, cut like glass. He did not dare take. His need was too great; nothing could heal him, nothing could be enough. So he touched Elgalad only lightly, giving only, and never recognising what he gave.  
  
But there had been lovers before Vanimöré who both accepted and gave: in the the Wood, when the _Ithiledhil’s_ heat rose like a storm from the deeps of the earth, from ancient times, then, Elgalad had reached back to something older even than his love for Vanimöré, to the blood of those Eru had loved in Ancient times: Edenel, Culina, Bainalph. And later, when their paths crossed, he was drawn to others. Always the pull of the First Gods, Eru’s beloved creations, was strong. It was, still.  
  
And Vanimórë...? Elgalad knew well enough that Vanimöré had long ago lost any need for even the memory of innocence. Even in Middle-earth, before ascending, he had only _thought_ he needed it, that he should want it. But he found his greatest passion and pleasure with Maglor, dark fire turning to fire and Song. Blood drawn to blood.  
  
There had been no jealousy; monogamy was not something practised either by Vanimöré or the wood-Elves. Only once, self-trapped in Unlight, had Vanimöré apparently felt that emotion, believing that Fëanor had used Elgalad for his own pleasure. But that rage was augmented by Sauron, and Eru too, and bore a strong vein of protectiveness. But there had been no usage, only the tidal pull that drew Eru and Elgalad toward those they had loved. Anyhow, it had provided Vanimöré with the motivation he needed to return to the World. As Fëanor, (clever, always so clever) had known it would.  
  
But what was he, Elgalad, now? What was he, in and of himself? Because he was _of_ Eru, but not the whole. He was a fragment, a shard, like this mirror. And he was not a fool who thought that he could know everything of the unfathomable mind that had brought him into being.  
  
He had seen other worlds in the Mirror; some were desolate, apocalyptic places, others were similar to this one. He saw himself, or perhaps Eru; sometimes it was difficult to tell where he ended and Eru began. But one thing Elgalad was sure of: he did not want to be absorbed back into Eru, he wanted to _live_ to be himself, if that were even possible. And not here. As Samael Bennett he had seen enough. His stepfather had abused he and his mother, and sold him for rape. Anyhow, as Eru had said, ‘ _Samael Bennet is dead._ ’  
  
Well, and so he was, but his existence was still too close. Elgalad could not discard him so easily. He remembered everything: the shock and terror that had dominated him as he and his mother fled Chez, and the sheer relief of meeting Vanimórë, whom he knew, then, as Lucien Steele. As Samael, he had not _known_ him, not then, had not even known _himself_ , but his soul had recognised what Vanimórë was, Edenel and Coldganir also, and even Leon St. Cloud. They were something finer, something _other_ , existing beyond the filth and poverty Samael had known all his young life. And Vanimöré represented something else too: protection. Samael had never experienced the sense of being protected nor ever hoped to. Yet there was more: despite the rape, the hot, swelling flutter of attraction that he had only felt once when he had briefly met Maglor (as he now knew) in London.  
  
But. The rape; the memory of orc-talk when his stepfather dragged him down to the dark, beer-smelling pub: _’Aww, look at him, Chez. Shy, is he? What you need, Sam-boy, is a nice hot pussy_ ’. The raucous gravel-slide of laughter. And his stepfather’s: _’Or a big cock up his arse, innit, Sam? That’s what he really wants. Twelve inches, dry_!’ The mockery, the gestures, the dirty jibes. And the rape.  
  
The man responsible, Ronnie Trent, was irretrievably mad now and soon, would be dead. Elgalad had strangled Chez Bennet and felt no regret. He was not shy, nor weak; he understood Eru’s desire for vengeance, and Vanimöré’s also. He could close his eyes and re-live it: his revulsion of the man’s heavy, hairy body violating his, the terrible explosion of pain, the humiliation, the paralysing fear.  
  
The rape had affected Eru too but, like Vanimórë, who consumed his abuse, transcended it in bitter defiance, Eru found other ways to deal with it, and the way he found was Elgalad. Just as he was the part of Eru that could love unconditionally, he was also the fragment that could suffer.  
  
Elgalad did not believe this transference of pain was a deliberate act on Eru’s part; it had simply grown out of the vulnerability of being alive, having the capacity to love. Eru’s love was obsessive, but it was also wholly conditional — at least now. He had never forgiven his ‘children’ for turning against him.  
  
_I am the only semi-human part of him._  
  
Eru had never been even remotely human, save through Elgalad’s lives. Eru was motivated by a single purpose; the worlds passed by him, almost unnoticed save for on some subconscious level. Vanimorë was a little the same, or rather his wealth had permitted him to isolate himself, but in the pursuit of it he had integrated far more than Eru. Vanimöré, for the most part, worked from the inside; Eru from the Outside.  
  
But Vanimöré had not been born to Eru’s power, and had lived thousands of years as Sauron’s slave from a childhood of privation and violence. Small wonder he chose to become wealthy, to remain apart. Yet still, he used himself without pity. Here, in the early days, he had lived homeless. In Middle-earth, Elgalad had witnessed him play sex-slave to the mad Emir of Tanith. Returning to slavery after apotheosis had fractured parts of him that were already broken. But he had done it, his eyes fixed on unravelling the mystery of the Isle of Plagues, and then walked into the horror of Unlight — and walked out again.  
  
Perhaps Eru would have done those things and...perhaps not. Unlike Vanimöré, he _had_ been born to supreme power and never known anything else save at the one remove which was Elgalad. Vanimöré had been born into darkness and fought his way into power on power. Now, the two Overminds’ stood face to face. Or rather, they did not. Vanimöré remained turned away, blazing with the hurt of his betrayal, broadcasting a warning that if those two ever confronted one another, all-that-is would be gone in their meeting. Elgalad was supposed to have formed a bridge between those two powers; he should have come into his memories (Eru said). Instead, as memory dawned, Vanimórë killed him.  
  
Elgalad was beginning to believe — to _know_ — that he had only been brought back for a purpose and once that was fulfilled, or even were it not, then Eru would simply take him back. And there was no redress.  
  
The house was dim and silent with late evening. Eru was gone, observing the Elves who had gone up to the Blackwater. With a sudden resolve, Elgalad ran lightly downstairs. In the study, he found paper and a pen, and scribbled a note, then folded it.  
  
Outside, although the sun had set, it was not dark, though the shadows lay black and still under the trees.  
  
On Middle-earth, Elgalad had been born of a Sinda father and a Silvan mother and the trees, the forest, were his natural home. He walked quickly across the garden, leapt up the wall and jumped into the great Scot’s pine that grew there. He shinnied up the trunk, lay prone on one of the branches. From here, he was level with the little turret of the Hall, and could see the bungalow and stables.  
  
As he watched, Claire appeared, like a ghost in a long green house robe, damp hair spiralling over her shoulders. She crossed the yard to the stables.  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

Dinner was over. Only Claire and Luc remained in the dining room. Claire had risen from the table and was impatiently circling the room, sweeping back a curtain, turning over a pile of folded napkins on the sideboard.

‘You still can’t find it?’ Luc asked, getting up to join her.

‘No.’ Claire frowned, replaced the napkins. ‘I have a very vague memory of picking it up in the library.’

‘It will turn up,’ Luc said. ‘No-one is going to walk in here and steal it. Did you ask Ellie Campbell?’

‘Yes, and she didn’t know what I was talking about, or so she said.’ Claire sat back down. ‘No, I really think she’s not seen it. It’s just I _was_ the last one to have it — I _think_ , and it’s not the kind of thing that should be left around.’

‘We will turn the place upside down tomorrow.’ Luc poured the last of the wine. ‘Don’t worry. It’s probably down a chair or under one.’

She smiled, sat back down. ‘Thank you.’ There was no-one in the house but themselves now, the others having gone back up to the Blackwater.  
  
‘What did _you_ feel from it?’ Luc asked. ‘That lake?’ He indicted the direction with a tilt of his chin.  
  
Claire circled her glass on the tabletop. ‘Well, I didn’t stay long.’ Not with Robin so affected. Although he was not afraid, she thought; the stallion was fearless.  
‘But they’re right in saying it’s not just...’ She made a gesture. ‘Evil. Maybe it’s not that at all, not some Lovecraftian horror anyhow. I hope,’ she added.  
  
Luc’s mouth lifted at one corner. ‘I hope, too.’  
  
‘But it definitely doesn’t want us there.’  
  
‘Pity,’ Luc said with a shrug. ‘Because Maglor will take the Silmarillion if he has to wrestle it from a demon bare-handed.’  
  
Claire watched him push back the thick ropes of hair from one shoulder. ‘You’re not afraid,’ she remarked. ‘Neither are the others. Do you feel her? Carnán?’  
  
‘I _was_ afraid, that night at the Clouds,’ he murmured into his wine. Late light fell through the windows, but the room was dim, for they had not turned on the lights. ‘And for a while after, afraid, confused, shocked, but lately it feels like...I cannot explain it, but as if she — Carnán — grew _into_ me, like roots, like branches, making me a part of her.’ He shook his head. ‘That sounds strange. And that was alarming too, at first.’  
  
Claire smiled. ‘As strange as Elves and gods and different realities? Demons sleeping in a loch?’  
  
Luc laughed softly. ‘Yes, just as strange as that.’  
  
‘You’re going, aren’t you? When the time comes?’  
  
He nodded slowly and spread his hands flat on the table, seemed to examine them as if to see what he was running under the skin.  
‘I think if I don’t, I will always be wondering what I could have been.’ His dark eyes rose. ‘And what of you?’  
  
Claire was silent for a moment. The curtains rippled in the evening breeze and a call came down the wind, the staccato _Kik-kik-kik_ of a sea eagle. The same one she had heard riding Robin, perhaps. It was late to hear it, and the cry sounded like an alarm.  
  
‘I don’t know,’ she said at last. ‘The dreams...They’re more than that, I know. But...what am I? I know what runs in my blood, but what am _I_?’  
  
Luc said, ‘You are the inheritor. The living blood of those dreams.’ Claire stared at him. ‘But what you do with it, with your life, is entirely up to you.’  
  
She nodded. She knew. Which made it more difficult. Choices always were.  
‘What would you do if you were close to your family, or had a partner?’  
  
‘I have no idea,’ he admitted softly. ‘Perhaps it’s better I am not close, and don’t have one. The decision was so much easier. Is this about your cousin?’  
  
‘Yes, or a great deal of it.’ She swirled the wine. ‘And it _didn’t_ make it easier. I think I knew it would not.’  
  
‘He sounds like a good man. You are very close.’  
  
‘We have been for years, since we were children.’ She drank. ‘And now I feel as if I might lose myself, and Harrison too.’ Her smile went awry, folded into a line of sorrow.  
  
‘You will always be Claire,’ Luc told her calmly. ‘But something else too. As will I. And I want to find out what that is, to be complete.’  
  
‘Complete,’ she repeated, wondering. ‘I thought I was moving toward it, leaving London, going to the Clouds. A space to breathe and just _be_ , as they say.’  
  
‘And do you think you would have found completeness, if none of this had happened?’ he asked quietly.  
  
She tipped her head. ‘I don’t know. It seems well...entirely too coincidental, don’t you think? You hadn’t seen Marcus since university, yet just happened to run into him in London. What are the chances of that? And I was at the Clouds for less than a year before all this broke upon me.’  
  
‘Don’t they say that coincidence is the universe’s way of telling you that you’re not paying attention?’ Luc grinned. ‘I agree, it was not chance at all.’  
  
‘No something much larger than we are, pulling us together like a giant magnet draws iron filings.’ A little shiver passed through her, like a wind from the ice. ‘I’m not sure I like it. I prefer to at least think I have some control over my destiny.’  
  
‘Maybe most people do, to a certain extent anyhow,’ Luc said. ‘Just not us.’ He smiled crookedly.  
  
Claire exhaled, pushed back her chair. ‘I’m going to shower and then check on Robin,’ she said. ‘Do you think they’ll stay up at the Blackwater all night? It’s like a vigil, almost.’  
  
Luc rose too. ‘They’re challenging it, yes? Letting it know they are not afraid.’  
  
‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘Yes, that’s exactly it.’  
  
She spent some time at her shower, as if standing under the run of water might help clear her mind, then wrapped herself in a long housecoat and went back downstairs. Luc was reclined on one of the library sofa’s, reading.  
She went across the yard to the stables and Robin put his head over the half-door. She ran her fingers down his sleek neck, leaned her cheek against his. _And what about you?_ she wondered. _I don’t want to leave you, either._  
  
The stallion raised his head, powerful as an oiled machine. Such a massive presence he had, even in the stable. He pricked his ears forward as if he were seeing and measuring his own challenge, there in the future. And was entirely equal to it.  
  
_But am I_?  
  
Something stroked up her back as if a hand had touched her and she whirled. Robin snorted, struck a hoof against the door with a hollow thud. But the yard was quiet, the kitchen streaming gentle light out from its open door. A few dropped pine-needles, whispered across the stones.  
  
Alright, Robin,’ she murmured, and he subsided. With a last pat she walked back across the yard, resisting the urge to look around, imagining someone watching from the shadows, but that sense of attention being on her was gone.  
  
She closed the door behind her, went across to the kettle. Her hand reached out, and she stopped. Right beside it, gleaming, was the Mirror. She picked it up, A folded piece of heavy, deckle-edged paper lay under it. The handwriting was in graceful cursive, unfamiliar.  
  
_Be careful. Please. Stay with the others when the doorways open._  
  
She strode back to the door, and flung it open. Robin whickered gently from across the yard but there was no-one there. Only the breeze in the pines and the scent of white flowers, fading.  
  
  
  


OooOooO


	17. ~ Hidden in the Heart ~

  
  


~ Hidden in the Heart~ 

~ ‘She will not speak of it,’ Eru said. ‘There is a hand over her mouth, her mind.’ His voice was mild as the evening. He turned his unfathomable eyes to Elgalad. ‘Why didst thou do this? Why warn her?’

Elgalad met his gaze. ‘Thou hast said she will not be harmed. But how canst thou _know_? She is mostly human, albeit with the blood of gods. Thou hast not dealt with Mortals. Thou didst did not create any.’

‘Thinks’t thou Vanimöré did? He simply sent forth his memories, his dreams. We dream, he and I, he simply has not yet realised that.’ Eru raised the chilled wine to his mouth. ‘All this is...nothing. A time of waiting...And was _he_ so caring of them? He took the throne of Sud Sicanna with murder. As God-Emperor, he was brutal. He killed enough Mortals, did he not?’

‘And loved them too. There were the _Khadakhir._ Yes, punished the guilty, and killed in war.’ Elgalad spoke low, angry. ‘He lived in brutal times and his very birth was a product of violence.’ _Because thou didst want to punish him the most severely. Traitor and son and beloved._  
‘All warriors killed. I did. And they do still, in war. All rulers are responsible for death in one way or another even if they do not care to get their hands dirty in these latter times. Vanimöré was Sauron’s son, and learned rulership from him, but he did not rule _as_ Sauron, and he would never deliberately harm an innocent woman.’

Eru set his glass down with a snap. ‘I will not harm Claire! How many times must I say this? She is _my_ blood and that of Andúnië, Culina, all who proceeded from her, both in this world and others; the blood of gods, and the memories of them too.’

Frustrated, Elgalad shook his head. ‘What wilt thou do to her?’

‘I would not harm any of them.’

Elgalad said nothing. Eru read his silence. He reiterated: ‘I would not harm her nor any of them. I love them.’

‘Once, thou didst,’ Elgalad said softly. _And thou didst destroy them, put them under the yoke of the Valar._

The garden shook, as if there were an earthquake far under the ground. Crows flung themselves, shrieking, from the trees. Eru’s eyes went ice-blank as white lightning.  
‘I love them,’ Eru said. ‘I never _ceased to love them_!’ The words hit the air like an explosion of blood from a wound.

‘I know thou art lonely,’ Elgalad said after a moment of silence as the air and earth settled. His heart was beating hard against his breast. ‘So am I, as part of thee. And, because thou couldst not enter a world in all thy power, thou didst bethink me, made me, and savoured thy beloved ones _through_ me.’ _Little wonder I was so hungry for them!_ Eru had been sipping a little nectar from the cup he himself had smashed. Vanimöré had remade it, filled the flaws with gold, but still it had been broken in grief and rage and the nectar bore its aftertaste: the salt of blood, of tears.

For a moment Elgalad saw, felt, was consumed by the yawning abyss of utter _loss._ Were all Creators alone; was that why they created, unable to bear the horror of being the only one in all existence?

And Vanimöré?’ Eru asked. His face was marble. Lovely. Unreadable. ‘Dost thou not want him back? To be with him again?’

 _Yes, but as we were, once._  
Elgalad turned his head away, but Eru said, ‘The time after the Damned were reborn, when for twenty-five years the both of thee wandered. Thou and he were free for a time, before he began raising the Imperium.’

Elgalad nodded. A little time for themselves until the Imperium’s might closed around them and separated them. They had not been lovers in those years after Vanimöré’s apotheosis but they had, he thought, been closer than ever before or after. It was like the peace after a storm.

But Vanimöré was born to war, born to rule through both his father’s blood and Fëanor’s. Elgalad could not imagine him being less than he was. The idea of him melting into obscurity was both risible and somehow unendurable. Vanimöré was not fitted for such a life nor had he ever pretended he sought it. And so, a quarter of a century out of thousands of years was all he would allow himself. They had not all been years of peace, but they were a time between times. And he had done it for Elgalad, not for himself.

‘We cannot go back,’ he whispered. ‘I was born for him, because that was thy plan, but he was never mine. And I was never his. Not truly. No-one owns anyone. We only share, for a time.’ And Vanimöré seemed to understand that, perhaps because he did not believe anyone would ever want to claim him. Elgalad, in the shard of individuality that was _himself_ , that had become singular, not part of his creator, knew it. Eru did not. Or if he did, would not admit it.

‘We shared everything,’ Eru agreed. ‘In the beginning. Life and love and beauty, one another.’ And then memory whipped his voice into the lightning-steel of temper that has seen him bring down nightfall upon his own world and end the universe itself. ‘But I _created_ them _all_. They are mine. As are _thou._ Remember it, Elgalad Meluion. Remember.’

OooOooO 

~ Mairon’s steady and silent regard was a weight of metal and stone and ember fire. Leon bore it.

Mairon had been out that day, alone. Leon watched him go, and had seen, as he entered the trees at the edge of the grounds, his shape melt into the leanness of a wolf — the giant white Fell-wolf of ancient times, sire of Draugluin and Carcharoth and all their brood. It was long ago he had last seen that, his father in wolf-form, in bat-form. Suddenly, the past was so very close.

Sauron said, ‘Your twin and the Elves are spending most of their time at that black lake.’ He shifted a Rook without looking at it and Leon frowned at the result.

‘Yes, my Lord?’

‘My son is still absent.’ Then: ‘They brought the Silmaril from Rochford here. They would never have left it behind. It must be in the Hall.’ He smiled, cold, charming. ‘I want you to get it for me, Leon St. Cloud.’

Leon sat up as if stung. ‘How can I? I have no idea where it might be and—‘

‘You will feel it.’ Mairon leaned forward, touched a slim forefinger to his brow. ‘You have seen it, quite recently, and remember well enough when Melkor wore them.’ He drew his fingers down Leon’s cheek, then leaned back in the chair. Leon, his skin tingling with the trace contact, did remember. The glory of them, the defiant _burning_ , as if Light itself were a weapon in the hand of its Maker. Melkor’s own hands were forever blackened, as was his brow.  
‘ _Does it not hurt him_? he had asked Mairon in Angband, and his father had replied shortly: ‘ _It is agonising, but worse for him to be without them. How would he know what he had...won, if not for the Silmarils reminding him_? And it is the closest he can ever come to Fëanor.’ His face and words both were cynical.

‘I know the house,’ Leon replied. ‘But they would —‘

‘Not if Maglor and his son are at the lake, and my son’s companions. The man and woman...I grant you they are not normal, but if you were seen, they might think you Marcus.’

The audacity took Leon’s breath away. He started to speak and then stopped.

‘Marcus is there too, at that lake,’ Mairon continued, tempting. ‘Or sometimes out riding that stallion. We merely need a time when the Hall is well-nigh deserted.’

Leon swallowed. ‘Why,’ he asked. ‘do you want it?’

Mairon tilted his head like a curious cat. ‘Not for any kind of power. The Silmarils are beyond all gods, as Melkor found out. They answer only to Fëanor and his blood. _Your_ father had not yet discovered that but he would have, in time. No for — what do they call it here? — oh yes.’ He smiled. ‘Insurance, perhaps. But not that alone. I want to study it. I have a theory which I think my son has not even imagined. And, if you do this, Leon,’ his long lashes flicked up. ‘then you are welcome to spend as much time as you like calling Marcus to your side, within certain constraints.’ And he laughed. ‘You think I do not feel your yearning? Well? How much do you remember of the house?’

Leon’s mouth went dry. ‘I only went there three times, when I was a teenager. But I remember it well enough.’

‘Where would they keep a treasure, do you think?’

‘I don’t know. If the housekeeper is still there —‘

‘She is. I made enquiries. One Ellie Campbell.’

‘Then not somewhere she would find it. It’s a large place. I don’t know. A wardrobe perhaps.’ He reached for the wineglass, sipped to melt away the arid nervousness. ‘Maglor would have it, I think.’

‘You are afraid,’ Mairon observed, expressionless. ‘Yes, you are not quite cast in the mould of my son. He feared too, naturally, but one would never know it to look at him. Not after the first time I gave him to Melkor, anyhow.’ The casual cruelty still had the power to startle.

‘Of course I’m afraid,’ Leon exclaimed, coming to his feet. ‘But I want...I want to see my twin.’ Wanted? Ah gods, he longed for it! He turned, smiled crookedly. ‘If they kill me, my Lord, will you bring me back again?’ And the thought of the endless, grey labyrinth, Námo’s unclean touch, wiped the humour from his lips.

‘Possibly,’ Mairon said, musing, that ice-cold smile like a blade. ‘That would rather depend on the manner of your death.’

It was four days until an opportunity presented itself:  
Mairon returned one morning to say that Vanya had driven away from the hall with the housekeeper, Claire James and Luc. Leon recollected that Ellie Campbell, though buying most of the Hall’s food locally, liked to visit larger shops at time to stock up on essentials. Usually a day was made of it in Ullapool, a couple of hours drive away. When Mairon told him the road they had taken, Leon nodded.

‘And the others?’

‘Your twin rode out on that stallion; the others have gone up to the lake. The house is empty. Go. I will watch.’

Leon nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said and walked out of the Lodge. He heard, as he entered the woods, the scream of a hawk taking to the air.

OooOooO

~ ‘Thou wilt allow them to see it, I hope,’ Celebrimbor paced beside Vanimöré back to the Portal. He had seen the _Ithiledhil_ , and Celebrimbor was correct in that they, of all the handful of survivors, were the least traumatised. Trauma there was, and grief, but they were still a clan and their chieftain was not dead. And Finwë...he was more like Edenel now, or maybe more like to the Finwë of their awakening. And, of all them, grieved: for his wives, his sons, all his lost House.

‘They deserve to see the Valar fall,’ Vanimöré responded. He had always meant that Maglor and Tindómion witness the Power’s humbled to dust. ‘It is tempting to simply do it, but no, I will wait. I will disarm them, but not judge them. The Elves shall be their judges. There is one other thing I have to do first, however.’

‘Eärendil’s Silmaril,’ Celebrimbor replied, as acute as ever.

‘Or _not_ Eärendil’s Silmaril. There is no universe where the Valar would let that out of their hands once they possessed it,’ Vanimöré said acidly. ‘But not that alone.’

‘And when all three of the jewels are together?’ Celebrimbor stopped, swung to face him.

‘Then Fëanor is complete.’

Celebrimbor flung up his head. ‘Yes, I _know._ But why in that reality? He did not even need them in ours!’ All the arrogance and pride of his House were in those words, the challenge that Vanimöré dare even _suggest_ that Fëanor be incomplete in a different universe.

‘Celebrimbor.’ Vanimöré set a hand on his shoulder, looking into that stern, proud face. ‘Thou hast not looked?’

‘I saw...enough.’ The ice-light eyes refused to look away. ‘But I will not look beyond his death, any of our deaths. I think somehow that the Valar would feed on grief. Do not tell me that is a foolish idea, I know it. And the thought of them doomed, in Mandos. No. That is _not_ how I wish to think of them. They were — are — so much _more._ ’

 _Ah, my fault, in grief and madness, my fault. I did not have the wit to think, to make it better than it was!_ Too impulsive, too defiant, too _hurt._

‘It is not foolish,’ Vanimöré said gently, binding his fury within him. ‘The Valar are all sprung from the same originals, as it were. And anything that happens in any reality bleeds across all, to a greater or lesser degree. I have not looked either, for that reason. Why bother? It will always be the same. They will torment, they will gloat. But listen to me now, Celebrimbor: Fëanor is the same _everywhere._ The same fire, the same soul. He looks like Fëanor, believes as Fëanor, has the same desires, loves, brilliance, passion. He is how I always knew him, everywhere! He is the Flame Imperishable and that can never be altered or lessened. He should have been born a god; even his Elven form could barely contain his soul. I could not — would not — lessen him.’

Celebrimbor nodded once, terse. His eyes were wide, as if beholding a vision.  
‘I know. Thou wouldst not.’

‘The Valar feared Fëanor, long before the Oath, and he knew it. In the reality I am — currently — involved in, Fëanor placed much more of his soul within the Silmarils than in our own. And for a reason. He may not have known why he did it, but it was like giving something precious to a trusted friend for safekeeping. Until they are restored to him, he will be incomplete.’ _And that is a blessing, perhaps._ ‘Not less, but not his true self. And, paradoxically, that made it easer for the Valar to twist his mind to madness at the end.’

The weight that only dwelt in the eyes of the damned and doomed turned Celebrmbor’s eyes to Fëanorion steel. ‘Then get the Silmaril, Vanimöré. Retrieve it from the thieves,’ He spat the last word. ‘And bring the three together.’

‘I will.’ He curled a hand around the base of Celebrimbor’s neck, drew their brows together. ‘Listen to me. Do not wound thyself by sitting in that hall among the recreations of the dead.’

‘Thinks’t thou I am so morbidly inclined? I am not, only sometimes...I need to be near them.’

Perhaps it was less painful than watching the past from the Portal, or different worlds. Vanimöré nodded, but then the flame sprang back into Celebrimbor’s eyes, panther-fierce, uncompromising.  
‘But I want them back, Vanimöré.’

Vanimöré bit down on his retort of _So do I_! He held Celebrimbor’s combative stare.  
‘I would give everything that I am, become _nothing_ to bring them back,’ he said intensely. ‘But I cannot do that. Eru cannot do it. I _am_. I thought I...I tried to destroy myself, after.’ He choked back the fury at his failure. ‘I tried,’ he ended.

‘Stop,’ Celebrimbor said sharply, and his hands dug into Vanimöré’s shoulders, shook him. ‘I know. I did not mean that thou shouldst destroy thyself.’

‘And I will not destroy what I have created.’ Vanimöré straightened, swept a hand toward the Portal. ‘As I said before, civilisations may collapse, worlds may burn, but not at _my_ hand. They are flawed, these universes, because I am flawed. I should never have...’ _I should always have been as sterile as my body has been. But I wanted them back in some form._  
‘But they exist. So if that is what it takes, I will not do it. But I promise thee, when this mission is done, I will return to the Monument and —‘

‘Not thou wilt _not_!’ Celebrimbor interrupted. ‘Thou wilt come here. And bring that bastard of a father back with thee,; he added. ‘Between us, we should be able to think of _something._ ’ He saw Vanimöré’s lips tilt and cast up his eyes. ‘Well? He has a rare mind. Even I will admit that.’

Vanimöré laughed out. ‘ _Well_ , he does not seem to know when to give up, I will admit _that._ ’ He moved back; their arms clasped in a warrior’s grip. ‘Farewell for now, Celebrimbor. Hold to thyself. Hold to hope.’

‘For now,’ Celebrimbor repeated firmly, and wryly, sadly: ‘Hope? What else is there?’

The Portal burned into shimmering curtains of light as Vanimöré approached it, arcs and lightning-forks, star-explosions. He reached out, plucked one glittering strand so that the song of that world sounded like a harp note, and the vision opened.  
Then he stepped through.

OooOooO

~ Valinor, like every kingdom of the gods was, Vanimöré thought, a half-way point between the world-that-is and the Outside. It was not impossible for Mortals to find their way to these places, indeed there were enough tales of such things happening. There was Oisín who fell in love with Niamh of the golden hair and went with her to Tír na nÓg. But his tale, like many such, held a warning, for when Oisín returned to Ireland after three hundred years, he withered into old age with all he had known long dead.

All such places were perilous, as Eärendil had found; though he cleaved more to his Mortal father, he had accepted immortality and was now trapped within it. A saviour, they said. A prisoner, rather. But the Valar could not risk his revealing their actions, and sent him into the skies, to sail in Vingilot until...forever. The Valar here had no prophecy of the Dagor Dagorath, believed Melkor chained for eternity. They had never communicated with Eru, had no foresight of the future, and ennui lay thick as hoarfrost over Aman.

Valinor, in any reality, aroused mixed feelings in Vanimöré. He remembered it in the old universe for the glory of the reborn Elves entering over their bridge of light, the fall of the Valar and Taniquetil. But he also recalled the Valar themselves, petty, gaolers, carrion-crows, arbiters of justice. Any who fell afoul of their narrow and confining laws were damned.

_I should have unmade them, before the End._

The only Elves left in this version of Valinor were a paltry few lead by Ingwë, who had bowed to the Valar and were long brainwashed into their thinking. None of them left the so-called Blessed Realm since the War of Wrath. All of them were gathered at the feet of the Valar upon Taniquetil to bow and scrape like the meanest of slaves. Tirion and Alqualondë lay deserted, going back into nature. Vines curled into empty windows. No harp sounded, no Elf walked on the glimmering strand of Eldamar.

Vanimöré would not allow himself to think of the souls sentenced to the desolate maze of Námo’s Halls or how they would heal when released. This was no fairy-tale where they would wake from Ages of sleep at a kiss and live happily ever after. There would be memories and grief and trauma, but there would also be love, and freedom, and hope. But not at his hand; while he could absorb certain poisons that related to his own life: rape, abuse, and take the barb from a wound, he could not heal it. No-one could. It would be to take away part of a person’s soul, which was where all healing dwelt — and the lack of it, also.

And so, for the Elves to heal would not be simple, but it could be accomplished once the trammelling rule of the Valar was ended. The Valar would be gone.

_As will I._

The Elves were too near to the ones he had loved and lost, but were not them; they were themselves, and they owed him nothing. He would not shadow them with his ancient grief.

He dismissed the thought. Here and now, the Silmaril was his aim. It was hidden, locked away where Manwë might open its casket and gloat over it. He longed to wear it as Fëanor had worn all three gems in a circlet (and Melkor, after) but he was not quite that foolish. Not yet. The other Valar and Valie would covet such a thing paraded before them, no matter that Manwë, King of Arda, wore it. Aulë, in what was perhaps his last act of defiance, had refused to fashion him a crown.

The power of the Silmarils, of Fëanor’s soul, was still potent. The Flame Imperishable did not dim with the passing Ages and, as it had eaten into the minds of Elu Thingol, and Elwing, it did no less to the Valar. Manwë recognised this. He ever maintained a distance from the others, even Varda. Only Námo might easily approach him. Manwë, while never declaring it outright, no longer considered himself a first among almost-equals, if he ever had. For a long time now, he had believed himself elevated high above the others. If Varda could have usurped him, she would, but Manwë’s pet Maia, commanded by Eönwë, were loyal. They had no choice.

_Thou wilt be given one, I promise._

Some of the Valar had drawn as far away as possible from Taniquetil: Irmo and Estë to Lórien, Oromë and Vana to the woods, joined by Nessa. As in the Ancient universe, these were the gods who had been lured into following the original discontented triad of Manwë, Varda and Námo. Loners, in general, and apt to be swayed, power-seekers some of them, or ambitious to be more than their natures dictated. When the Creator’s Children rebelled against Eru, they found themselves both trapped in a war they could not extricate themselves from and ignored by both Eru and his Chosen.

And yet...they were gods; they had permitted the triad absolute rule over Valinor and the lives of the Eldar. _Thou didst let it come to pass. Thou wert given the freedom of thought, of choice and allowed it._

His mind hardened like diamond, and he thought of Maglor, enduring all those Ages alone, Tindómion searching for him while the Valar sent mazes into his mind. They had little power over Middle-earth, not any-more but it was enough to confuse and lead his steps away.

His anger rose, sharpening to a high, fine point like a dagger. He could not enter Valinor quietly, even unclad, and now he had no intention of muting his arrival.

He broke open the sky like a meteor.

Taniquetil shook on its mountain throne and Vanimöré saw Manwë stride out of his palace in the wake of his Maia warriors. To Vanimöré’s eyes, who saw the truth, he was a fleshless old man, pinched mouthed, dark eyes ever alert to fault. Thin white hair blew in the breeze, as he raised a hand to stop a tempest. And failed. The winds were not his to command anymore, and buffeted him off his feet. The Maia surrounded him with a protective screen.

Vanimöré wrenched back the desire to unmake him and focussed on what he had come here for.  
Shut away though it was, the energy of the Silmaril was like the emanation of a giant sun, the only true power in all Valinor where the light was pallid, shadowless, a pour of sour milk. Vanimöré would simply walk in and take the Silmaril, and leave.

The palace of Ilmarin was colossal, made for giants or gods, not for Elves; it was impossible, with twisted columns abutting statues of Manwë and Varda that upheld star fields and planets. The dimensions were wearying, confusing to any but a god’s eye. To Vanimöré the palace was ridiculous, no beauty there, and no use but self-aggrandisement. In all its icy, ghostly riot, the Silmaril showed like a heat-spot in a glacier. He fixed upon that spot...

...And the palace walls _exploded_ outward.

The Silmaril was like a comet, trailing light and flame, streaming through the air — to Vanimöré. It came into his hand with a _thump_. He closed his fingers around it, felt the searing heat that could not burn him, and the _tug_. This was not far enough. For the flicker of a moment he thought that it wanted to escape yet further from its prison, and then realised that the imperative pull was _seeking_. Of course. Even here, it felt the pull of Maglor’s blood, son of the Maker.

Manwë’s guard, lead by Eönwë, took flight, pursuing the Silmaril. Vanimöré laughed, and clad himself in form. Eönwë stopped, as did all his warriors, wings clapping at the air in a fury of terror. Vanimöré blew a kiss at them and left Valinor. His leaving shook avalanches down the slopes of Taniquetil.

OooOooO


	18. ~ Hearts of Fire and Shadow ~

  
  
  
  


~ Hearts of Fire and Shadow ~ 

~ Leon did not need to go anywhere near the Blackwater on his way to Duirinish Hall. There was a path that skirted the shore of the loch, rough walking but presenting him no challenge. He could almost have gone along the little beaches and coves all the way, but he moved quietly, cautiously, using the cover of the trees when possible.

He remembered his last visit to great-aunt Fayne, and sitting on the sand, drifting into that immense view of sea and sky. It had been autumn, then, with the wild geese flying south, and the leaves beginning to fall. At the thought of how simple his life was then, Leon smiled wryly then walked up into the garden.

The hawk cried overhead, and Leon glanced up at the wings against the clouds, then back at the Hall. It had always reminded him of a miniature Glamis, but without resident ghosts and associated grimness. Now, it seemed benevolent under the sun, welcoming, so different to his burnt and unlamented ancestral home.  
Great-aunt Fayne, although no less eccentric than his mother, had been welcoming, and Ellie Campbell had fed him until his thin and underfed stomach was replete. He was glad she was not here; he would have been hard put not to embrace her.

He went around to the yard, where the stables were empty, but for a white cat sitting like an ornament on the roof.

The kitchen door was open, as he had guessed it would be and the large room with its comforting Aga, was clean and neat. Only the scent of baking lingered, and a tea-towel covered a wire-rack. Lifting it, he saw scones cooling.

_Don’t get distracted._

He moved through the kitchen into the long hall. The house embraced him, as it had before, but he sensed there was no-one here.

The Silmaril. It would not be downstairs, he thought. Ellie took pride in keeping the house clean, and had always refused offers of a second home help. She got into every nook and cranny, dusting, polishing. It would be upstairs, hidden, somewhere.

There were two staircases, a narrow one leading from the kitchen quarters, and the main one from the front hallway.  
The bedroom doors on the first floor were all closed. Another set of spiralling steps ascended to the turret room, then switch-backed down to other bedrooms. Leon knew the layout well enough from his teenage years, but there was no need to search every room. He closed his eyes and fixed upon the radiant aura of the Silmaril.

It had been placed in a wardrobe. The chamber was airy, spacious, with two double beds and a view over the loch. Maglor’s room and Tindómion’s, Leon guessed. The wardrobe had been locked with an old key, which was still in place. Carefully, Leon lifted the casing out. It seemed to pulsate in his hand.

Unlike Mairon, he had no desire for the jewel himself, though what the Silmarils _were_ , fascinated him. It was like being close to a perpetual fire that might char to ash or warm to the centre of the heart. From what he had learned, their maker had been exactly like that; one either allowed the flame to embrace them and burned within it, or feared its heat and would not approach. There was no middle way.

Well, Leon had made his choice, had sworn to his father and would not renege on it. Mairon was not his father, but part of him resided within, and Leon considered himself oath-bound.

He left the room.

OooOooO

~ There was cold, and there was darkness, and, in the heart of it, far down, there burned an unquenchable Light.

The monster clung to the Light and slept, as it had for thousands of years. Time meant nothing to it; there was only the comfort of the Light in its world of darkness.

Long ago, there had been rage, agony, then oblivion for what seemed like a moment, a breath, an eternity.  
Then a tear, a rip, another screaming interlude.  
Voices. They clamoured and raged against it.

It had done what it had done, and they came down upon it with all their power, all their malice. They spoke of what they did; at first they spoke _to_ it, it as their minds and hands broke and cracked and bludgeoned, pushed and probed. When it did not respond, they talked _over_ it.

For long periods it was left alone in darkness wherein the agony roared and, if there had been any mind left to go insane, it would have. But that had already gone. Perhaps they had used too much power.  
Once, it had been far more, like others of its kind. But all its former glory was stripped under their hands.

Later, in dreams, it remembered the long slow work that had twisted it. The memory of it could still bloom red-black, causing the monster to stir in its sleep.  
It remembered...that it had sent itself away, as victims of abuse sometimes do, so that the torture seemed to happen a long way off, to a stranger.

After an eternity of torture, of _changing_ , it was taken to a place of cruel and sunless mountains, chained it to a rock over a crevasse where water rushed, black and cold.

It did not know how long it was in that place; there was no way of measuring time. Thought had fled, long ago. It simply...existed. And endured.

It was enough.

At last, for no reason that it was time, it broke from its chains and clawed and slithered down the wet rocks until it came to the great vastness of the sea.  
There were denizens of the ocean that hunted, killed in an everlasting quest of survival, both predator and prey. Some were dreadful to look upon, terrifying in their size and savagery, but they avoided the monster as if it were either too dangerous even for them, or too unclean. It dwelt alone, knowing only the abyssal deeps, the sediment of the ocean floor, the lightless canyons.

And so Ages passed until the Light was uncovered, thrown up by earthquake and storm. In the abyss, it blinded; even the creatures attracted to light fled.

But the monster did not flee. It took the Light even as some greater, more ominous power stirred the deep, the sea-god whose domain this was. The monster could feel it, hunting for the Light. It was of the water, and yet its presence and form pushed massive currents through the roiling deeps, mightier than the hugest whale.

The monster, made monstrous, had not seen Light in uncounted years. It would not give this up and so, on instinct, little more, it made for the land, where the sea-god could not come and was borne on the breast of mountainous waves that crashed deep inland. The monster allowed them to carry it, unresisting, and came to this resting place, a dark, lake, narrow and deep and cold.

The sea-god tried to follow it, but it turned and uncovered the Light, which blazed, a star, a threat that _burned._ The monster did not know why the sea-god wanted it, but it did not trust any power now, not after its ruination.

 _Keep away_! the monster thundered.

The sea-god’s howl become one with the groan of the earth, the seas, the cracking thunder. It turned away, withdrew into the pounding ocean

The monster coiled down in the icy water, wrapped itself around the jewel. It was a comfort, (its only comfort) and yet troubling, for its light cut through the muddy haze of its long existence like a torch lit in a tomb. If the monster could have elucidated its thoughts, it would have said the Light was sentient. It was, beneath the illumination, a gem, beautifully faceted. Sometimes his claws ran over those facets. But it was more than a carven jewel. In the depths, intelligence _blazed._

It spoke to him.

The monster wept, in its heart; for it could shed no tears. _It did not understand the words._ Too much had gone.

It had been broken, it knew, made horrific, a slow fall into hideousness while its tormentors watched. But there had been a time before that; there had been beauty and light. Sometimes the images flashed into its dreams and then the monster might howl in its sleep and the lake waters would rage when there was no storm or wind.

The land and sea settled, changed. When Men came — for the loch was rich and the warm waters of the Gulf Stream brought mildness and bounty — the wise among them set up stones against the being in the Black Lake. The power was so great that no fish could live in its dark waters, and no vegetation furred its fringe; the mountain goats and sheep, the wolves and hill-foxes would not drink from it, and no bird crossed it.

So the ancient folk warned and warded and tried to forget what dwelt in the lake, and the knowledge passed down the centuries in story and fable. And the monster slept and it dreamed. It meant no harm, but it wished to be left in the silence and the blackness, along with the Light, and no-one must come near. It knew it had been made into a horror and within that kernel of self-awareness, it was ashamed.

But now, the Light it embraced was wild, so that the uttermost depths of the lake were dark no longer. The monster gripped it, but the gem sparked, welled, pulled at its grip. There was a sense of frustration and anger in those brilliant emanations.

The monster clasped it tighter.

OooOooO

~ Marcus felt it as he came down to the Hall. Rob Roi pricked his ears forward and huffed.

The roofs and little turrets of the Hall stood benign under a mild grey sky. On the loch, sailing boats skimmed on the southerly wind.

Heat bloomed through him from a central core, flushing his cheeks.

_Leon._

He had known when his twin drew near but hid the knowledge under his heart. The others, Coldagnir and Edenel in particular, would surely be aware. But Leon was _his_. His responsibility, his blood, his soul, and _his_ to deal with.  
And he thought they knew that, that Vanimöré did also.

He did not reach out mind-to-mind; he had not when Leon spoke his name from so close. He simply rode, and the stallion stretched beneath him as if he could feel Marcus’ urgency.

He drew rein before he came into the yard, and entered quietly. He was impatient but would not leave the horse hot and sweating and, as he ran the curry-comb over the black hide, watched him drink and settle, the presence was still near.

He closed the stable door behind him, took one long breath and marched into the empty Hall.

The front door, which was stiff and little used, for the family always preferred to use the rear of the house, shut with a faint (from this distance) but audible sound.

Marcus raced down the passageways, wrenched open the door, and hurtled out onto the drive. He closed his eyes when he saw no-one, and _felt_ , then ran around the side of the Hall, jumping flowerbeds and dodging around trees.

Not Leon alone. One always knew where the Silmaril was, even shut away. It was almost a sentient presence.

‘Bastard,’ Marcus hissed, running, following his instinct, through the gardens, and down to the little cove. Some of the sailing boats were not far away, and he blurred himself with glamour.

Leon, on the fringe of shoreline whirled. He held the ornate silver container that held the Silmaril and his stance was defiant, but something hot as a splash of lava lit his violet eyes.

Marcus put out a hand peremptorily. ‘Not yours I think.’

A smile flickered and died on Leon’s mouth.  
‘And what are you going to do about it?’ he asked.

Their eyes were still fast on one another. Marcus leapt at him. Leon dropped the container, yielded to Marcus’ weight and went down on the sand.

‘ _He_ sent you?’ Marcus demanded, Leon’s breath dusting his mouth and desire rose like a flood tide. ‘He sent you to _steal_ it? Are you nothing but his dig and now a thief?’

Leon laughed breathlessly. ‘What do you think?’ His beautiful eyes narrowed. ‘Oh, you don’t know, do you? Vanimórë does, I’m sure.’

‘Know what?’

Leon gave a sudden heave and flipped Marcus on his back. He was still laughing, and Marcus pushed up against him, furious, and even more so when he felt that both of them were aroused.  
‘Know what?’

Leon’s teeth showed white. ‘Our father is not our father now, Marcus St. Cloud. I watched as he entered our world through a Mirror shard and _absorbed_ our father. The Mairon that is here, is _Vanimöré’s_ father. You felt it. Didn’t you? You must have.’

Marcus went still in shock.  
‘What does he want?’ he whispered, and louder: ‘What does he _want_?’

‘Let’s find out shall we?’ And Leon kissed him with a hunger and fire that broke open Marcus’ soul. Because, when they were together, they were _one._

When they were apart, Marcus could try to keep Leon out, to deny the emptiness under his breast but now, as before beside the Blackwater, he was lost within it. More than passion, more than lust, this was two halves of one being coming together.

Leon broke it, rising to his knees, looking up and Marcus heard the soft press of sand underfoot. He looked up by way of beautifully-tooled boots and a tunic slit to the thigh, to a slim waist, and eyes with fire behind.

He came to his feet in a convulsive movement, panting, staring at Mairon, and knew that Leon had not lied. There was a greater feeling of pressure here, of sheer power. The shock of ice after the moment of emotion shook Marcus to the fire, yet he straightened like a solider before his commander-in-chief.

‘Hello, Marcus.’ Mairon’s smile a cold white glint. Just so had Vanimórë smiled at him once. He lifted the Silmaril’s casing. ‘Yes, why not come with me and I will tell you exactly what I want.’ As to this.’ He tapped the silver case. ‘I am merely borrowing it to test a theory. You may have it back, after.’

With that he turned, boots flicking up sand, and walked away.

The insouciance was superb and so _very_ Vanimórë, but then Marcus looked at Leon and saw the unspoken message in his eyes, a plea not to be left alone, not to leave him now they were together. Almost, he reached out to his twin and throttled the impulse.  
‘Very well,’ he said, and followed.

OooOooO

~ Vanimórë drove through the night, frowning. In the boot of the car the Silmaril lay, wrapped in cloth. He was not heading north, nit yet, but further south to Summerland, not any great distance from Oxfordshire. Dawn was breaking as the electronic gates opened and the Bentley coasted in to halt before the mansion.

He got out of the car and spent a moment looking at the house. Summerland. In every reality he had visited, the mansion existed, like a pin that pierced through the layered cloth of the multiverse.

Despite its recent associations with ‘Samael’ and Leon St. Cloud, he felt at peace here. Its ghosts were a bleed-through of events from other worlds, not the tormented spirits of the Clouds Whatever else he let go, Summerland he would keep. No matter how long he was absent, or what he let go (and he let many things go, uncaring) this would never fall into other hands. Vanya would always watch over it — and all his interests. As he had told Celebrimbor they would never pass from his control, or his sister’s. He had built everything he had from nothing, on all these worlds. True, he had certain advantages, but nothing had fallen into his hands. He had worked for it. Not as hard a road as climbing from a hungry shivering child in Tol-in-Gaurhoth to what he was now, but no-one had helped him.

As to how he had earned that money, come to where he was now, it caused him guilt. He had never wanted to rule on these older worlds, only to have the power that wealth conferred because wealth _was_ power. He chose, therefore to use one of his earned talents: killing; at least in the beginning. He joined and lead mercenary companies at first and then, later, came the political assassinations which paid very well. In all cases, his victims were ones he would certainly have killed in the past and the task was performed quickly and efficiently. He had formed contacts in those years. Most were dead now, but his name had been passed on and those threads remained, and. They remained useful. After, well, wealth begat wealth, especially when one knew how to play the Stock Market. But his wealth was founded on blood. So be it. Most wealth was, one way or another.

He made coffee, took it onto the lawn to drink, enjoying the sea air, the warm midsummer scent of the land and the fresh odour of the pines that shielded the house from prying eyes. Yet he frowned as he drank. Midsummer. It was so close...He closed his eyes and fixed upon the village far away in Scotland on the edge of the shimmering loch. The change shocked him. In the time he had been absent, the power there had doubled and redoubled. It was like a radiation leak and, though it was not, still it was becoming impossibly dangerous...

Abruptly, he rose, two thoughts clicking together simultaneously, and went into the house. He unlocked the door that lead down to the cellar where he had taught ‘Samael’ the rudiments of firing a gun. At the thought, he grimaced faintly. At the back of the cellar was a locked door that had no key or any other device to open it. While Vanimórë had much less power here than on the Outside, he had enough for this. A _click_ sounded as the internal bolt drew back.

It was an office, simple, white walled, a workstation and chair.  
Taking out one of his burner phones he sat down and called the DDE.

‘Charlie, that village will need evacuating.’

‘Steele... _what_?’

‘Midsummer Eve is going to be far too dangerous.’

He heard her take a deep breath.

‘Don’t worry,’ he reassured her. ‘I have a plan—‘ He smiled at the phone. ‘There’s very little you need do at the moment.’

There was a brief silence. Then: ‘What are you _doing._?’

‘Charlie.’ He allowed a trace of power to enter his voice and he felt her freeze. ‘This goes beyond the DDE. I am informing the PM, don’t worry.’

‘Jesus...Steele. Martha...’ Charlie gulped audibly. ‘I’m not sure except I think that she’s headed up there.’

‘I see.’

‘She’s too bloody clever, you must know that. She’s too curious about everything and about _you_. She’s visiting friends in the Lake District, or so she _says_. But she hasn’t taken her phone or iPad or laptop, _or_ her car.’ Charlie ran out of breath.

‘Yes, that is clever,’ Vanimórë said. ‘She knows all those will be tracked. Very well, I will deal with it.’

‘But —‘

‘Later, Charlie. I have some calls to make. I will be in touch.’

‘2024 Asterion Haven 4,’ came the instant response to his next call. ‘Mr. Steele. Sir.’

‘Leonie,’ he replied. ‘I will be there at approximately 17 hundred hours today. Bring me up current locations of the nuclear submarines out of Faslane, would you, please? Any near Loch Carron?’

HMNB Clyde, or Faslane, the home of the UK’s nuclear submarines, was sited on Gare Loch, chosen for its relative seclusion and deep waters, but there were usually a few submarines on manoeuvre around the Scottish coasts.

There was a moment of quiet, then: ‘HMS Warspite, sir. Entering the Firth of Clyde, outbound from Faslane.’

‘Thank you, Leonie. I will need a team to monitor events and set up a cordon. Have them ready for me to inspect.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. Stand by.’

He had never called the Prime Minister of the current sitting government. But all PM’s knew that Lucien Steele might contact them and now, he did. He felt the hesitation on the other side, the long pause before answering.

‘Prime Minister,’ he said calmly, and proceeded to steamroller the man, known for his desire for an easy term in office and easy life in or out of it. ‘Lucien Steele. I trust you are well...? Yes, a reprehensible act on the part of the deputy PM. Rape, human trafficking...I am so glad to see you are distancing yourself from such things. I would expect nothing less. Of course. Now, this is purely a domestic matter, you’ll be pleased to know, but a small village in North-west Scotland will need evacuating for at least two weeks, in four days time. A possible radiation leak from HMS Warspite. The evacuation is a precautionary measure; later it will be found to be a false reading, but an abundance of caution cannot be faulted. There will be a cordon around the village which I will deal with myself. We’ll settle the villagers in let’s say...Inverness, and I will cover their hotel bills, unless any have relatives they would like to stay with. Any loss of earnings will also be recompensed. The evacuation will not include one house: Duirinish Hall.’ He allowed all that to sink in and waited while the the Prime Minister exclaimed, objected, tried to twist every which way to get out of having to act and finally, acquiesced.

‘Yes, all this and anything that happens _will_ come under the official secrets act...No, as long as no-one enters the village there is absolutely no danger. And as I said, it is a domestic matter. Now,’ he sat back. ‘I suggest you set up a call to the Commodore first of all, to change Warspite’s course, and we can begin this operation.’

Two hours later, after showering and changing, Vanimöré left the mansion and Summerland returned to its watchful peace. In the boot, the Silmaril seemed to feel as the Bentley headed northward. It was urgent, Vanimöré thought, it was waking.

 _Not long._ He addressed the Flame within it. _Not long now._

OooOooO


	19. ~Behind the Shadow of Your Smile ~

  
  
  
  


**~ Behind the Shadow of Your Smile ~**

  
  
  
  
  
  
~ Leonie Clifford entered the room before the door had hissed all the way back on its tracks.  
  
It was quiet here, computers and read-outs working on the tsunami of information that came in, twenty-four hours a day, from all across the world.  
  
Only one man looked up. Leoni strode across to his work station and leaned over his shoulder.  
‘What the hell’s he doing, Jae?’ she questioned, pitching her voice to the muted level of the room.  
  
The man’s head shook. ‘I’m not sure he’s doing it. He’d tell us, surely?’  
  
‘Probably. Possibly,’ Leonie muttered. ‘Five days and the reading there keeps rising.’  
  
The door hissed again and everyone looked around. The reason for their jobs and the existence of Asterion walked in.  
  
There was a scrape of chairs as the staff came to their feet. Lucien Steele smiled, came across to Jae’s workstation.  
‘No,’ he said. ‘I am not actually responsible for that.’ He looked at Leonie. ‘The operation is underway.’ He walked to one of the computers, drew up a map. ‘HMS Warspite has changed course. It will be in the Inner Sound...here, when the...ah, possible radiation leak occurs. The team is ready?’  
  
‘Yes, Mr. Steele.’  
  
  
  
There were twenty women and men waiting quietly in the operations room. All were dressed in dark combat fatigues, with holsters for the guns not yet issued. The insignia of Asterion, the sword-palms of Sud Sicanna, was worn as a discreet pin on the breast. If lost and found, it would mean nothing to anyone outside Asterion.  
  
It was rare for a team to be sent out; had only ever happened a handful of times, but it was accepted that they must go armed and must be prepared to use their weapons.  
  
Vanimórë did not require any of his employees at Asterion to be able to fight; some simply did not have the aptitude or desire although almost all of them were flexible. They sat no tests, were interviewed by Vanimórë alone, and knew they had passed only when they were offered the position.  
  
Mental toughness was one quality that Vanimórë did insist upon. Working three month stints in an underground base, no matter how well-equipped, was not for everyone. Not for most people, no matter how absorbing the work. But all of his employees had that quality, sometimes innate, sometimes arising from their former lives. Though they were not _Khadakhir_ , there were enough similarities for him to feel protective and fond of them all. Fond, but not too fond, close, but never too close. There was always, as there must be, a distance.  
  
Those who volunteered to learn warrior arts, he taught and trained himself. They could and did use modern weapons but, in a possible future where such things would become rare and eventually obsolete, he also trained them to use swords, knives, bows and spears. Unarmed combat was also important and Vanimórë devoted more time to it.  
  
In the pits of Angband he had trained with captured Elves, with orcs, with Balrogs. He learned from everyone, anyone, anything. While he had never given his fighting technique a name, the _Khadakhir_ had called it the _SeKha-Loth_ , the Dance of the Demon Prince, shortening it to _SeKha_. But it was not inflexible, and Vanimórë was always implementing new techniques. In the end, he told them, fight dirty; war is not an honour-game. And he had never, on Middle-earth in its past or now, seen any deadlier warriors than the _Ithiledhil_ , which explained some of the battle-moves taught to him by Sauron, who had overseen them in Utumno. The _Ithiledhil_ , the Quendi, had never fought before; it had not been needed, yet they had proved lethal.  
  
‘How did he know?’ he had once asked Edenel. ‘My father? He never wanted to lift a blade.’  
  
‘I know not,’ Edenel replied. ‘Some of it we learned from the Balrogs. Gothmog was a lumbering brute but others, Coldagnir, Dachaas, were lithe and swift.’  
  
‘And how didst _thou_ know?’ Gently. ‘When thou hadst never fought to kill before?’  
  
Edenel’s white head shook. ‘It is surprising how apt one is to learn under certain circumstances. Sauron trained us like an expert. I believe it was his mind. It could calculate wasted moves, the quickest and most deadly actions. Modes of killing. And the...First orcs were savage, but they had no discipline. They were...easy to kill. And.’ His great pale eyes burned sparks. ‘We _wanted_ to kill them.’  
  
Vanimórë always found it strange that he, his entire existence had been planned thousands of years before his birth. Sauron had seen what could be done with the _Ithiledhil_ and resolved on one of his own, a child, bound to him by blood, and unable to escape.  
  
_And did I ever escape, truly_?  
  
The team here were going north to monitor and enforce a cordon, not to war, but nothing was ever set in stone, and the risk was always present. All were intelligent, fit, and of the mental flexibility he demanded.  
  
‘Once the MOD evacuates the village, no-one enters,’ he said. ‘You will establish a cordon. The SBS will be on the loch, the SAS will form the second cordon inland. You know that there will be people wanting to film, or just curious. Keep them out if they get through the SAS, which I doubt. And, although I intend to look for her myself, watch for this woman.’ A picture came up on the screen. ‘Martha Painswick. DDE. She is thought to be on her way to the village.’ And, as they consulted their phones. ‘Yes, she is one of the few who has the Access Asterion insignia, although I hope that will not be needed for a while. If you see her, do _not_ let her through the cordon. On Midsummer’s Eve it may feel like the equivalent of a bomb going off in that village. As for the rest. Monitor, record the readings and anything else that may happen, and place them in the deep files. There will be MOD drones, but there may also be private ones. Disable them. Any questions?’ There was silence. He nodded, went to the door. ‘Leonie?’  
  
His office was rarely used but always available when he came and could not be accessed by anyone but himself and Leonie. When the door shut behind them, he smiled at her, recalling the 80’s Goth, rebellious, clever, bullied and never fitting in. An only child and runaway, when he came across her in one of his homeless hostels, he had recognised her pain and enormous potential.  
  
She never returned home; her mother had left long ago, and her father was prone to temper and violence. Now, almost forty years later, Leonie’s naturally black hair was streaked with white; there was a touch of the Goth still in her jewellery and clothes. And her potential had been fulfilled.  
  
‘You look well,’ he said as they sat down.  
  
‘And you always look the same, Mr. Steele,’ she responded and folded her ringed hands on the desk.  
  
She was one of the few people who could almost see though his glamour at times, though he welded it on more firmly in this place. Like Martha, Leonie was a pagan, a devotee of the Morrigan and did have some genuine visions and insights.  
  
Vanimórë did not concern himself with his employees beliefs, whether religious or atheist, or for the gods of any world. Long ago, he had released them from the Timeless Halls, and that was the limit of his involvement. Occasionally he saw them, sensed them, but left them alone and did not visit the lands they had created for themselves. He had no interest in their power-games, their lives, their plans and plots, and did not believe in worshiping any deity, but if people found comfort in it, it was not for him to interfere.  
  
‘There _will_ be witnesses,’ he told her, and she nodded. ‘Unavoidably. I am not too concerned. The official story will gain traction, and there are so many conspiracy theories and stories of strange phenomenon floating about it makes little difference. By the time the villagers return, there will be nothing to see.’  
  
‘Anything to be read?’ Leonie asked.  
  
‘If one knew _what_ to read, and had the instruments capable of recording it, undoubtedly. All Portals carry energy, but after Midsummer it will sink into the background.’  
  
‘So, if you aren’t causing this power build-up, Mr. Steele, who is, and to what purpose?’  
  
Vanimórë rose, went to the coffee machine and held up a cup in question. Leonie nodded. ‘Please.’  
  
The beans ground with a whir and the rich scent of fresh coffee.  
  
He took their cups to the table. ‘Eru, I think. As to his purpose, I have no idea.’  
  
‘The PM is in the loop.’ She took a sip of coffee. ‘The MOD. And—‘  
  
He raised his brows. ‘The Americans will be monitoring, the Russians and Chinese too.‘  
  
‘They know anyhow,’ Leonie remarked with a tight, conspiratorial grin.  
  
Vanimórë shrugged. ‘The DDE will deal with it. What anyone knows, what they can publicly say, and moreover what they can _prove_ is another matter entirely.’  
  
‘True. So, this Martha Painswick. Is she a candidate?’  
  
Vanimórë considered. ‘In every way, save that she is outgoing, has family, friends. I think it would be a last resort for her. Which is why Asterion was created, after all.’  
  
Leonie twisted a heavy silver bracelet. ‘My retirement is coming up in the autumn, Mr. Steele.’  
  
She would be fifty-five, at which time his employees were offered voluntary retirement, a pension of one million pounds a year and a fully paid for home wherever they wished to settle.  
He said kindly: ‘You do not wish to retire?’  
  
‘Asterion has been my life,’ Leonie looked up. ‘And I think...Not now, but in a few years, we _will_ be needed.’  
  
He frowned. ‘You have dreamed of this?’  
  
Leonie straightened. ‘Dreams of ravens on the corpses of the dead.’  
  
The Morrigan. Raven goddess. Crow goddess.  
  
Vanimórë narrowed his eyes. ‘Yes, I see,’ he said, though he thought the gods and goddesses deliberately confusing and Delphic in their messages and visions to Mortals.  
  
What might be coming was not the Dagor Dagorath, though. The waves of that destruction would not reach this reality for a long time, but the world went on its own course. There could be war enough, disease, not an ending of the world, but a disaster.  
Then stay,’ he said. ‘It is what Asterion was created for. What we prepare for.’  
  
She nodded. ‘We are prepared,’ she promised.  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

~ Marcus was surprised at how close to the Hall Sauron was staying.

Or perhaps not.

The Lodge was somber, elegant, thickly carpeted, and their footfalls fell muffled as Sauron lead them into a plush sitting room. He closed the curtains, placed the Silmaril’s casket on a polished table and turned to Leon.  
‘Why don’t you get us all a drink, Leon?’ It was a command rather than a suggestion, and Leon flashed a look at Marcus before turning to the door. Marcus moved to follow him and was stilled by Sauron’s upraised hand.  
‘I do not think I should let the both of you alone, not yet, anyway, and so I will act as chaperone.’ His teeth showed. ‘Together you cannot think clearly, and you will need your wits about you for a little while yet.’

Marcus flushed. Sauron’s backlit ember eyes glinted.  
‘I have no time or use for people who cannot control their lusts,’ he said. ‘Vanimórë has always been able to control himself. There is liquid hydrogen in his veins, running directly alongside Fëanorion fire. It makes him...a challenge. Interesting. But Fëanor himself recognised there was a time and a place for bedsport, and this is not it. I do both you and your twin the credit of believing you are not ruled by your body’s hungers.’

‘It is not just that,’ Marcus objected and then hated himself for replying. ‘Not just lust.’

Sauron raised his brows. ‘No, not with you and Leon. Lust would be easy enough to deal with. It is unprecedented, to rip apart a soul and have them reborn both as Mortal and as brothers. And they called _me_ cruel. Nevertheless, how it takes you — and he — is _desire._.’ He gestured carelessly. ‘There will be a time for it, but that time is not yet. And,’ he added. ‘It will not solve anything.’

‘Solve?’ Marcus repeated.

‘Sex solves nothing at all. It will not make you one again. It is merely the most intimate was you can imagine being with him.’’

‘It must be death then,’ Marcus said slowly.

‘Possibly,’ Sauron replied indifferently. ‘But I would wait until the Valar of this world are brought down. Leon would tell you. Would you not?’ He asked, as Leon entered carrying a heavy tray with three glasses and champagne in an ice bucket.

‘Tell your brother of your experience in the Halls of Mandos.’

Pouring the cold wine, Leon did not look up. He said, his voice calm, controlled. ‘Horrific. A place of the most perfect despair.’

A shudder ghosted through Marcus’ bones. He wanted to step forward, embrace Leon, but under Sauron’s mocking gaze, did not. He accepted the champagne from his brother’s hand and their fingers brushed, heat flaring through the frosted glass. Their eyes locked with a clash as of shields.

‘And so, wait, or learn to live with it.’ Sauron took a delicate sip of the Dom Perignon and set the glass aside. He reached out a hand and unlocked the clasp on the silver casing.

Radiant, unearthly, powerful beyond measure, the light of the Silmaril shocked the room. It was like an explosion. It was all colours and none, as a diamond that catches the sun’s rays. Silver predominated, the fiery burn of liquid mercury in a crucible, but no silver could ever possess or hope to match that fire. It left flickering motes of light in the room like a shattered rainbow, or broken gems strewn in sunlight. Reflectively, Marcus lifted a hand as if he could catch the light in his palm. It lit up his flesh; he would swear it was warm.

_The Fire before the Sun and Moon._ Or at least, created in Valinor where the Valar had raised a dome so that the two were not visible. No, they would not have wanted anything to diminish the illumination of the Two Trees, he supposed.

He glanced at Leon, saw him staring, white-faced at Sauron.  
‘He...my father could not touch it,’ he protested as Sauron lifted the jewel out, held it in his hand.

‘No, he could not. I am not he. He was a lesser aspect of me.’ Sauron did not look at them. ‘And I do not want it, as Melkor did, or _your_ father. The Silmaril knows this. I am simply following an idea.’ He placed it carefully on the table and sat down. Marcus saw that despite his words, the hand that had held it was reddened.  
‘Now, be silent for a while.’

Leon drifted closer to Marcus. Their shoulders touched and their flesh heated through the fabric. Marcus’ heart kicked into a gallop; he heard Leon’s faint, shaking, indrawn breath. This time he did accede to impulse, and folded Leon’s right hand in his left. Their fingers slid together like a puzzle that should never have been unlocked.

But Marcus’ eyes were on the Silmaril. He imagined, with something akin to awe, how Fëanor must have looked, wearing all three upon his brow. No wonder the Valar had feared and hated him. He would have appeared more godlike than they, and filled with a more perilous potential and will.

And then he felt that will. It seemed to focus on him, and on Leon, piercing, as inhuman as Sauron, as Vanimórë and the others, a burning-glass of power and passion and _fire_. It was like being caught in a blast of radiation; he almost expected to feel his hair, crackling, crisping, burning up. Remembering Maglor with the familiar scald of shame, he expected and braced for it.

And then it withdrew, with a flick like a lash that made him gasp, as if it knew and were warning him, but for now, had other, more pressing concerns. It swung and concentrated on Sauron.  
Who began to speak.

Not aloud. Marcus heard them as one hears a conversation through a closed door, words not meant for them. Sauron spoke in Quenya, which Marcus had learned from some of the thralls in Angband when they considered him one of them, an unlucky slave captured young. He could only make out a few of the words.

Sauron was a shape silhouetted by the blaze which bloomed brighter and yet brighter, until Marcus thought the windows of the house must shatter, the walls themselves crumble. The Silmaril could, he was certain, do more than that; it was not only a gem; that, perhaps, was the least of it.

He strained to listen, one hand linked with Leon’s, who was an intent as he and it seemed they both stood in Night where the only light, the only hope, was the Silmaril, burning, burning.

He had no idea how much time passed, but he blinked as the light faded. The diamond sparks swarmed in the air for a moment, then vanished as the casket was shut.

The room was grey, dim as a tomb. The Silmaril’s light was so far beyond that of daylight, of sunlight, there was no comparison.  
Sauron stood motionless at the table for a long moment, and Marcus saw that the dark, polished wood was bleached, the varnish stripped. It seemed he himself had got off lightly. Then Sauron turned, and Marcus could not recognise the expression on his face.

‘Ah, Hells,’ Sauron said. ‘That is _clever_. Perhaps too clever, but—‘ And then he laughed, head flung back.

The twins jerked apart from one another. ‘What?’ Leon demanded.

‘Not yet. I will not tell you yet, but do not be concerned. You will know in time.’ The laughed ebbed but the smile still flickered. ‘I really do need to speak to my son.’ He looked at Marcus. ‘The Fëanorions, Maglor especially, he has not looked in the Silmaril?’

‘I am not in his confidence, naturally,’ Marcus returned stiffly. ‘I don’t know. But surely he would?’

‘Perhaps not often.’ Sauron seemed to answer his own question. ‘Perhaps it is too painful.’ He considered. ‘But then the Silmaril itself would—‘ He stopped. ‘Well, we have a few days until Midsummer. And that _will_ be interesting.’ He drained the rest of his champagne, then picked up the silver casket and proffered it to Marcus like a gift. ‘You may take it back now.’

Almost convulsively, Marcus clenched his hand around the smooth silver handle.  
‘I’ll have to tell them,’ he said as coolly as he could. ‘I’m surprised they didn’t _feel_ it.’

‘They might have, were the Silmaril in any peril,’ Sauron agreed calmly. ‘But it was not and knew it and, amusing though this seems to me, what I learned will be helpful.’ He rubbed a finger across the bleached tabletop.

‘They are a weapon,’ Leon murmured.

‘In a way.’ Sauron inclined his head. ‘Or rather, they are too bright for this Middle-earth. Fëanor is the true weapon; he always was, though he wasted himself in rage and madness. Or was made to.’ Sauron’s eyes half-closed as if watching something far away and long ago. Or remembering. ‘An elemental force from an even older universe, born into the form of the greatest Elf who ever lived, and still that was a frail shell to contain him.’

Marcus cleared his throat. ‘We know that the Silmarils hold part of his soul.’

‘Yes, it hardly takes a genius to work that one out,’ Sauron replied dryly. ‘Even in Angband one felt it. But I was not permitted to examine them. In this world however —‘ The laughter still thrummed in his voice like the fading tone of a harp-note. Then his eyes locked on Marcus’. ‘Do not tell them yet. I will speak to my son, and then we shall see.’

Marcus dearly wanted to refuse although he knew it was dangerous to refuse this Sauron anything. He was more dangerous than his own father, whom he had, if Leon were correct, devoured.  
‘You cannot expect me to say _nothing_ to them!’ He put up his chin.

‘I am not asking for your acquiescence, but your obedience.’ The red flame flashed. ‘’It is nothing, I assure you, that will harm them. But if you will not.’ An infinitesimal shrug, then he moved like a snake, clamping one arm about Leon’s neck. There was no weapon in his free hand, but as he laid it on Leon’s heart, Marcus smelt the iron-burn smell of scorched linen and remembered how Sauron had slain Gil-galad in the war of the Last Alliance.

Leon was trained in combat; he could, in theory have reacted. He did not. A gulf yawned between them. Marcus believed he himself would have fought, but how could he know? Leon had died and Sauron had brought him back. If death did not change one, did anything? And if Leon had struggled, would it even be in time, or would Sauron’s hand sink through the flesh and char the heart? Leon flashed him one look devoid of plea or any emotion, then closed his eyes. Helpless fury flashed into Marcus’ breast, hot as the fire that dwelt in Sauron’s flesh. Burning. He took a breath that seared his throat.  
‘ _Very well_ ,’ he cried. ‘I won’t. I will not speak of it.’ He swallowed the words like acid, hating the one who stood there, who gestured like a king, like a god, as if he were still the Lord of Barad-dûr who surrounded himself with fire, and who nodded at Marcus as if he had expected nothing less.

_Ungodly,_ Marcus thought who believed in all gods and none. _One who laughs at gods and cares nothing for them. An elemental. Born out of the world’s fire and stone and metals._

For a moment he saw again, the exquisite and terrible throne hall of Barad-dûr, and his father, unshadowed by Melkor’s thundercloud, ruling alone. And himself, alone...

The smile deepened, fire-red, steel-hard. ‘So go,’ Sauron said.

Marcus’ jaw clenched. He stared at Leon who had opened his eyes. His face was stone, expressionless, but their gaze clashed into a kiss. Then Marcus spun on his heel and strode from the room.

Outside the Lodge, he paused to take a long breath of the sea-clean air, to calm the racing of heart.

He looked up as a black helicopter, shockingly low, thundered overhead.

OooOooO


	20. ~ Between the Dark and the Light ~

  
  


**~ Between the Dark and the Light ~**

~ ‘Yes,’ Vanimórë smiled at the two men. ‘That is as near to perfect as makes no odds.’ He walked around the finished items, reached out to touch them lightly, testing.

They did not smile. Most of the Asterion staff were perhaps overly serious. But they were pleased.

‘Ship them up to Scotland,’ Vanimórë nodded. ‘To arrive by 10 a.m. tomorrow.’

‘Yes, sir. And nothing else?’

‘No. I have seen the originals. It is true we cannot hope to match them, not yet, but these are as near as can be produced. I will see to the bonus.’ His smile included them both. ‘Thank you. You have done extraordinarily well.’

The men breathed out in relief as he left and the door hissed shut behind him.

OooOooO 

~ ‘You will always walk half way between the light and the dark,’ Vanya had told him.

He was twenty years old and it was spring in Paris. Vanya turned away from the window of the Hôtel de Crillon. The Place de la Concorde shone in the dusk, beautiful and brilliant as the centrepiece of a stage, and she smiled at him. The smile was warm, incalculable, ancient as the land itself.

‘Because the dark never goes away,’ she whispered. ‘And always Mortals have sought to drive it back.’ The smile faded. Her eyes measured him. Testing. The warm lamps in the room dimmed and died.  
‘And when the lights die out go out, the darkness comes back. You must learn to live with it, Marcus, to walk on that narrow edge and yet not become _of_ it.’

And he had walked out that night, walked for kilometres; away from the opulent brilliance of the Crillion and the Place de la Concorde, feeling the warm, gusty spring wind in his hair. The lights glimmered on wet tarmac, flooded from doorways, a fine mist of drizzle caught in the beam of a car headlights. There was the smell of food and wine, of exhaust, and then the streets grew quieter, narrower, and the shadows pooled between the street-lamps. In those shadows, the world was very old, and what dwelt in them did not forget. Civilisation did not banish the dark.

And so, Marcus had become a creature of the margins, poised always halfway in the shadow between the splendour light and the fullness of the dark.

OooOooO

~ The black helicopter sped toward the mountains and banked. Military, he thought, watching it. Why? And then, like a door opening, he felt Vanimöré’s presence in his mind, a cool, strong weight like planed steel.  
Relief surged through him, cooling the throbbing pain in his throat, his heart. _Vanimórë._

 _Yes_?

 _I need to speak to you._ He paused. _And so does your father._

 _Of course he does._ Dry and wry and unsurprised. _I am driving up. I will be there this evening._

This evening. _Very well._

He was back at the Hall before he realised that he did not know where Leon had found the Silmaril. He swore under his breath and then did something he had wanted to since discovering he had a twin, and had not. He reached out with his mind.  
_Leon._

The response was instance; it was like one planet swinging toward another, immense and inevitable.  
_Marcus._

He pressed down on the leap of emotion, the heat and longing of it. Sauron was right: both he and Leon had to control what drew them together, for now at least.

 _Where did you take the Silmaril from_? he asked.

 _The Fëanorians bedroom, or so I assume. In the large wardrobe._ And then. _Marcus. Love. Be careful._

 _Love._ Marcus’ mouth dried, but he flashed, in anger and reprimand:  
_I am not the one in service to Sauron_!  
Leon’s response was a crack of bitter laughter.

Slamming mental barriers into place, Marcus ran up the stairs. The house was still empty, and he returned the Silmaril to the wardrobe, closing the door.

Not knowing what else to do, he went down to the kitchen, made sandwiches, buttered scones and filled two flasks with tea. The last thing he wanted at this time was to confront Maglor but better to face him than avoid.

He placed the lunch into a backpack and walked up to the Blackwater. Maglor and Tindómion were sitting on the hill above the lochan, heads together. Both turned, the black and the bronze, as he came up the slope.

‘I brought lunch.’ He placed the backpack on the grass and opened it.

‘That was thoughtful.’ Maglor smiled, that warming flash of white teeth and a hint of dimples, mirrored by his son.

‘It’s fend for ourselves today,’ Marcus said lightly, offering the sandwiches and pouring tea. ‘With Ellie away.’

‘She spoils us as it is,’ Tindómion remarked.

‘Have you never had staff?’ Marcus asked.

‘Not for a long time, and not permanently. It is easier and safer to be self-sufficient.’ Maglor nodded his agreement over a bite of smoked salmon.

‘So there’s no-one—‘ He ran the words through his mind before speaking them. ‘No-one you will be sorry to leave behind?’ He looked from one to the other. Their heads shook.

And no children, no-one of their blood in the world?

‘No,’ Tindómion said absolutely, reading his thoughts effortlessly. ‘It would never have even crossed my mind to do that, or father a child.’

‘It would be too dangerous, and too cruel to burden one’s get with Elven blood,’ Maglor said sternly. ‘Even if one desired it. A half-Elf must still choose immortality or mortality. In older times it would not have been so difficult and of course it did happen, probably far more than was recorded. But — and for a long time — Mortals have ruled the world. It is hard, Marcus St. Cloud, to live immortal among them.’

‘Yes.’ He remembered his own feeling of never fitting in, never belonging, even before he knew what and who he was. ‘No regrets then, at leaving?’

‘None. And thou?’ Tindómion asked.

Marcus shook his head. ‘Whatever happens,’ he said. ‘I do not belong here, either.’

‘And thy twin?’ Maglor asked gently.

Marcus looked away from the intense silver eyes, across the moor and hill toward the lodge, hidden by the rolling land.  
‘I can’t give him up,’ he said. ‘He is part of me.’

‘Then he has to decide between thee,’ Tindómion said gravely. ‘Thou, or Sauron.’

 _But it’s not Sauron, not the one who was our father, anyhow._ He muffled the thought, but breathed a little easier.  
The Silmaril had obviously not alerted them to its brief theft. Had it _known_ , or was there some instinctual level on which it operated? In any event, the Fëanorions were too occupied with the Blackwater, and what was rousing in its depths — and of what would happen after.

They would kill the thing, Marcus knew. Whatever it was. And the creature was, he thought at least subliminally aware of that. The waters would stir and race now and again as if something huge shifted far below, restless. Waking.

A hawk called from high up in the sky before its cry was swallowed by the rhythmic beat of helicopter blades. It came round a shoulder of the mountains and passed low overhead, swinging out over the village and the loch.

‘Military,’ Maglor said, lifting his head. ‘A Puma. There must be some exercise in the mountains.’

‘This might make things awkward,’ Tindómion murmured. ‘If they are engaged in night manoeuvres with night vision.’

Maglor shrugged. ‘Then we do what we must and leave this world,’ he said.

Nothing would prevent them save death, Marcus saw, and then they would count their lives well spent in the attempt. They _shone_ with peril. He wondered if what they were could even be glamoured now.  
  
Rather to his surprise, they returned to the Hall with him. The others would be back this evening and so they would cook the dinner for seven o clock, Maglor said. Marcus would have preferred to be alone, the nudge of guilt at his knowledge knocking hard against his lips. He busied himself with cleaning Rob Roi’s tack, then offered to help with the food preparation. He chopped vegetables and kept quiet, glancing at the kitchen clock as the minutes and hours ticked toward the evening.  
  
Edenel arrived a little later, indrawn, silent as he sometimes was, but more these last days, holding himself carefully, like ice. Coldagnir did not come in for hours. When he walked through the door his streaming scarlet hair held fading ripples of fire as it settled around him and his eyes scorched. He walked in the scent of cinnamon and frankincense and the air around him was noticeably warm.  
  
They were all in the kitchen, and turned as he came through the door.  
  
‘Something strange,’ he said without preface. ‘A great deal of military activity.’  
  
‘We saw helicopters,’ Tindómion agreed. ‘An exercise?’  
  
‘Something arranged by the DDE?’ Marcus hazarded. ‘To cover anything that might happen here?’  
  
‘Possibly,’ Coldagnir nodded. ‘I will keep watch. If it is not, then there is far too much power here for it to go unremarked. And it is not even Midsummer yet.’  
  
Midsummer, when the Solar god was at the fullness of his strength and power. Coldagnir’s eyes rested on Marcus; wells of fire.  
‘There is no time for ritual this year,’ he murmured, glancing across at Edenel. ‘Some build bonfires to signify the Sun. And I shall create a fire of mine own. Do not worry.’ He addressed all of them. ‘Nothing will stand in our way.’  
  
‘No,’ Maglor averred, his voice like cold steel. ‘It will not.’  
  
  
  
  
  
Vanya arrived with Claire and Luc, and news that Ellie Campbell was staying in Ullapool for a couple of weeks, a holiday, she explained.  
‘It is better, my dears,’ she said to them all. ‘A little persuasion is all that was needed.’  
  
‘What will happen to her?’ Claire asked. ‘After?’  
  
‘I...er have signed the Hall over to her,’ Marcus said, looking up. ‘And ensured a good pension with provision for its upkeep. The bungalow is hers anyhow. The late Lady Fayne bequeathed it to her. And Vanya —‘  
  
‘I will keep an eye on her,’ Vanya nodded.  
  
Vanimórë came into the dining room unheralded, carrying his jacket and a briefcase. He looked like an ultra-rich man preparing to relax for the evening, but his real self, his presence, punched the air like an exploding grenade. The walls seemed to bow backward as he entered. ‘Everyone in the village will be evacuated soon,’ he said and sat down, accepting a glass of wine from Claire. ‘Except the Hall.’ He flashed a smile around the table. ‘Good evening, by the way.’  
  
‘The military helicopters?’ Marcus asked, relieved and buoyed by his arrival. It drew him upward from the soles of his feet, made him expect something _hopeful._  
  
‘A nuclear submarine will have a suspected leak in the Inner Sound,’ Vanimórë said. ‘And so the village, barring this house, will be evacuated and a cordon put in place. No-one in. No-one out. There is no leak of course; that will be known, after. The evacuation was a precaution.’ He took a sip of the wine, then turned to Maglor. Marcus saw behind that brilliant violet look and thought there was love there, and the first steps toward a farewell.  
  
‘I have the Silmaril of the Air,’ Vanimórë said gently and Maglor stood up in one swift movement. Vanimórë gestured to the briefcase, and Maglor picked it up, placed it on the table.  
  
Marcus knew what to expect but it still shocked his breath to stillness, hammered it back into his throat like ice. He heard Claire’s inhale, Luc’s soft exclamation.  
  
And then, carefully, Maglor closed the briefcase.  
‘My thanks,’ he said, formally. ‘What happened?’  
  
‘Nothing much,’ Vanimórë returned with a faint, amused tilt of his mouth. ‘Manwë had it locked away. But it wanted to come here, it wanted to come to thee.’  
  
Emotion, like a lightning flash and as swift, crossed Maglor’s features.  
  
‘Now, we have to talk,’ Vanimórë continued. ‘There is much to speak of but first —‘ and he looked directly at Marcus, whose cheeks splashed with heat. He raised his head and Vanimórë said softly: ‘I promise thee, Leon will not be harmed.’ His eyes held Marcus’ like a vice. Instinctively, he reached out, as if to catch and hold his brother to him.  
He said, looking at Maglor and Tindómion beside him: ‘Today, my brother Leon came here and took the Silmaril from your room.’  
  
The two stiffened like hounds on point. ‘ _What_?’ Maglor shot at him.  
  
‘I followed him. And Sauron came. Not the Sauron of this reality, but Vanimöré’s father.’ The two pairs of silver eyes flashed away from him to Vanimórë, who nodded.  
‘Yes. My father used a Mirror shard he found in the Timeless Halls to come through and to consume, assimilate, the Sauron of this world. He wishes to see me. He shall have his wish. Go on, Marcus.’  
  
‘Sauron said he did not want to steal the Silmaril, but to... _check_ something, I suppose. And so, I went with him, to where he’s staying. He opened the case and...I don’t know what he saw. He was speaking to it in Quenya. I know the language, or rather I knew it in my old life and can remember it now, but I could not hear save a few words. And then, after, Sauron laughed. He said it was clever. Too clever. He gave the Silmaril back to me, and told me if I revealed what had happened he would kill Leon.’ Marcus looked at Tindómion. ‘Sauron held him, and...you know...you know how Gil-galad was killed.’  
  
Pain and rage, ancient, and fresh as a wellspring of blood from a new wound, burned in Tindómion. He said nothing.  
  
‘Sauron said he meant no harm. I had no choice but to believe him. I brought the Silmaril back.’ His eyes shifted to Vanimórë.  
  
‘It may even be true,’ he conceded. ‘I will speak to him. No harm is done now, in any event, and thou wouldst have done the same for any of thy brothers, Maglor.’  
  
Maglor’s look of danger stilled like a crouching panther, waiting.  
  
‘My father does not want the Silmarils, not now. He wishes he had created them, naturally, but his interest in them is not covetous.’  
  
Maglor’s eyes narrowed. ‘The jewel let him touch it?’ he demanded of Marcus.  
  
‘It did and Leon said that the Sauron that is gone — could not. He said it knew, knew he was not stealing it.’  
  
‘Thou knowest it to be true,’ Vanimórë said. ‘The one thou hast, concealed itself in a cocoon of mud and earth.’  
  
Maglor pressed both hands on the table. ‘It is possible.’ It sounded as if his throat were closed over the pain. _Fëanor’s soul._  
  
‘Maglor, let it lie.’ Vanimöré’s voice softened, the curl of care warmed through it. ‘I will discover what he found, I promise. Now. I need thee to think ahead. Thou wert High King.’ Maglor froze. ‘When thy brother was taken by Melkor, thy father gone. The crown of the High Kingship fell upon thy brow by right of succession.’  
  
Maglor nodded once, curtly. There was a universe of agony behind that one movement. ‘I did not believe Maedhros was dead. I _could_ not. Not after father. But I had sworn,’ he spat out, ‘Not to treat with Morgoth, whatever happened.’  
  
‘It was wise of thee to hold to that,’ Vanimöré murmured.  
  
‘But I should have been able to feel him! And I could not.’ He pressed the palms of his hands over his eyes. Breath exploded out of him. He dropped his hands. ‘Morgoth’s weight. Angband...It felt like a magnet of darkness drawing everything toward it, tilting the north of the world down into its throat. To devour us.’ His fingers curled into fists. ‘And I could not reach Maedhros.’  
  
The room was very still. With his words, a shadow had come into it. The Elves, the gods, glowed against it.  
Vanimöré’s voice broke through it like the sweep of a honed blade, glinting.  
‘Those who have been imprisoned, which is almost all of them...I cannot tell thee how they will be when they are reborn, but it will not be easy. They will remember. To take away those memories would be to rip out what they are, make them nothing but new, pretty dolls. I could do it, but they _are_ their memories, all the love, all the grief, all the pain.’  
  
Maglor did not even blink. ‘I understand.’  
  
‘And so, there must be a time of healing. The Valar will be gone, or without power, but the divisions may remain. For that time thou wilt have to take charge, thyself and Tindómion.’  
  
Tindómion watched him silently, silver eyes shadowed.  
  
‘There are very few Eldar alive in Valinor and they are mostly Vanya who wander drugged in the Halls of Ilmarin, but there are a few who, when woken from it, may be glad to stand alongside thee.’ And, answering Maglor’s unspoken question, he said, ‘Finarfin, Finrod and Galadriel.’  
  
Tindómion shifted, glancing at his father, who said, ‘Galadriel has no love for the Fëanorions, but she is a woman of strength and intelligence. I find it hard to believe she would fall under the Valar’s sway.’  
  
‘It would have taken a long time, entrapping her before she realised it was a trap,’ Vanimöré told him. ‘Like the slow weave of a spider’s web. And then it was too late. As with Finarfin and Finrod. I hope their anger at the Valar will overcome their feelings for thee.’  
  
‘Finrod I would hope for as an ally, and Galadriel too, but Finarfin,’ Maglor hesitated. ‘Yet I would never have believed, when we began, that he would turn back. For shame, I believed, then and now, and grief...and perhaps from jealousy.’ He looked across the table at Claire and Luc. ‘Our family relationships were complicated,’ he said. ‘But just let them come _back._ ’  
  
‘Do you want to talk about this in private?’ Claire asked diffidently, and Maglor’s face relaxed a little. He extended a hand toward her.  
‘No. There is no need,’ he said softly and sat back down. He drank some wine. ‘My father and Fingolfin...whatever anyone believed, the lies Morgoth sewed, they were like a spark to dry tinder, or no; more akin to two fires meeting and becoming a conflagration. Fingolfin was starfire, my father wildfire. Fingolfin simply learned control. My father...yes, he could be patient, with his children, but it was not in his nature to temper his heat. Finarfin...’ He looked into the distance, beyond the walls. ‘I scarcely knew him. His children, I knew better, but even they, not well.’ He paused then and Edenel said in his cold, deep, beautiful voice, still and clear as a mountain lake: ‘A few days, Maglor. Just a few days.’  
  
Maglor illuminated from within as if a light had been turned on, and Tindómion matched him; that unbelievable hope that was now almost within reach, not a dream or longing, but so near they could almost touch it. Anticipation. Power building.  
It could be felt, in the shining of Coldagnir, the strange brittle ice of Edenel, and in the air, something momentous coming closer, to break open the sky...  
  
‘I would not say Finarfin was cold,’ Maglor said, his voice steady, the glow still about him. ‘But his reserve seemed impenetrable. He was not like my father or Fingolfin. He was very beautiful, in the fashion of the Vanyar, of Indis. Yellow hair, sea-coloured eyes. My father and Fingolfin looked almost like twins, but Finarfin might have been of a different house entirely. I used to think that any passion he had, had gone into his children. Even Finrod, outwardly so serene, possessed it, but it was a warmer, gentler fire than my father’s, although everyone’s was.’ His smile was heartbreaking, there was so much love in it for the memory.  
‘I think that Finarfin would have chosen to be closer to my father, but at the same time, backed away from his fire. Not like Fingolfin.’ His mouth creased faintly. ‘But he could, I think, have been a voice of reason, had he come. I do not believe his children truly forgave him, but what did I know, then, or now? Aegnor and Angrod settled Dorthonion, as if to prove that they were no faint-hearts, although no-one who knew them would have thought that.’ His voice faded. A bird sang outside in the mild, wide evening light.  
‘But Finarfin, no, I would not have called him a Valar-lover,’ Maglor went on, a faint frown drawing his brows down. ‘Very few of the Noldor were. And when the Valar overstepped their authority in banishing my father to Formenos, (for it should have been a matter for the King) there were not many agreed with them. As they say now, there was a sliding scale of tolerance, even love for them. We Noldor were not like the Vanyar. Even Indis, who was Ingwë’s sister and Vanya; she made a show of piety, from what I understand, but less so as time went on.’  
  
‘The Indis I knew was nothing like that,’ Edenel spoke up. ‘And neither was Ingwë. All the changes that came upon the Quendi in Valinor, I lay at the feet of the Valar. But both she and he fought in the Dagor Dagorath.’ A faint smile moved his mouth, a gleam of sun across a glacier. ‘A different world, I know, but at the end, the pull of the old blood, the old _self_ , the true one, was stronger. That is what I hope for in this world, Maglor.’

He rose, circled the table and laid one hand on Maglor’s shoulder, the other on Tindómion’s. ‘Blood tells,’ he said. ‘In the end. Always.’  
  
Vanimórë spoke into the echoing silence that followed. ‘Indis and also thy mother, Maglor, are not there, in Valinor. In this reality, they and other women drew together, dwelt together and became rather a thorn in the Valar’s sides. They were underground rebels of a kind and so, when the last ship came to Valinor, and the Valar drew a line under the history they wished to forget, they too were executed.’  
  
The air quivered. Maglor’s head shook. ‘She repudiated us,’ he said, flaty, but a wound gaped underneath, red and hollow.  
‘And had drawn apart before we ever left.’  
  
‘Nothing will be the same,’ Vanimórë said. ‘And so many things will remain the same.’ He stood up. ‘Maglor. Thou art the embodiment of the Great Song of the universe, born as a god in the ancient cosmos. Godhood was always inherent within the Elves. I made thee gods, in my world that is gone. I offer it now, to thee and Tindómion and to all of the reborn Elves who choose it.’  
  
‘Godhood.’ Maglor repeated. ‘I wish we had been, then, for it took gods to defeat Morgoth.’  
  
Vanimöré’s eyes locked on his like a laser.  
‘And Morgoth is not gone, not forever. The Valar, or most of them, will be gone, or reduced. And it _will_ take gods to face him when Dagor Dagorath comes.’  
  
Maglor and Tindómion’s attention’s sharpened like swords. ‘The Last Battle?’  
  
‘It will come to all worlds, all realities.’  
  
‘Yes, I see.’ Maglor turned to his son and they looked at one another for a long, long moment. Vanimórë, watching them, said, ‘There is only one way gods can truly die and that is if I — or Eru — unmake them, and so it would be better to face the legions of Melkor undying, would it not?’  
  
A little, grim smile curved Maglor’s lovely mouth. ‘It would indeed.’  
  
‘But all the loves and hates and feuds, they will still exist.’ His smile blazed, radiant in the room. ‘But war and death are not the end, and so they can be resolved.’  
  
‘You will do this...here?’ Tindómion demanded.  
  
‘Not here. The power is too great, but when we pass through. If it is thy will.’ Vanimöré’s eyes moved to Claire. ‘I will not force this upon thee, but it is giving thee back a birthright that was taken from thee. Then, in Valinor both of thee must rule through the healing time. As son and grandson of House Fëanor it is thy right, and thou wilt be the only ones mentally able to do such a task, for a while at least. Some will, I suspect, recover more quickly than the others, but the Halls of the Dead are no pleasant dream.’  
  
Marcus said, ‘Leon said it was like a grey and endless maze, a place of perfect despair.’ And he felt Claire’s hand reach out to his back. She had briefly known Leon, of course. He looked around, tried to smile into her eyes. The soft grey held a spark of horror. _She’s empathic,_ he thought. She had felt that, seen the image in his mind.  
  
‘There will be no more Halls of Waiting,’ Vanimórë said. ‘Not for the Elves. They should have been a place of rest from whence the dead returned, building their own forms anew. But that gift too was taken from thee, and the Valar kept the secret and used the halls as a prison for thy souls.’  
  
‘And Námo himself?’ Maglor strode around the table to face.  
  
‘Thou wouldst confront him?’ By the deep smile in his eyes, he already knew the answer.  
  
‘I _will_ confront him,’ Maglor vowed, and Tindómion echoed his promise.  
  
Vanimórë inclined his head as to a king. ‘Then thou shalt.’  
  
  
  


OooOooO

**  
  
  
**


	21. ~ Soul Guardians ~

  
  
  
  
  


**~ Soul Guardians ~**

~ ‘Marcus.’

The sea washed and withdrew.

There was a boat out on the water, running black and quiet. Marcus turned his eyes away from it, from the darkling sheen of the loch, the mountains beyond, silent and enormous.

Vanimórë burnt in the dusk like bitter silver.

‘You’re going to Sauron?’ Marcus asked. ‘Now?’

‘I am, but I wished to see thee first. I _will_ take Sauron back to the Timeless Halls. I have promised it, and he is, oddly enough, needed. I think his curiosity and his own ego will compel him and if not—‘ He raised an elegant brow and at Marcus’ continued silence: ‘Well? When my father is gone, surely thou hast considered it? Leon will be free of his vow. And so wilt thou.’

Marcus’ breath caught. He felt, suddenly ridiculously foolish. It had not occurred to him. His head spun with a giddy kind of relief; an explosion of hope.  
‘My god,’ he breathed. ‘But...here, you’re not as powerful as he is. How can you—‘

‘Not here no,’ Vanimórë agreed. ‘But once we are in Valinor, then, yes. I will compel him if need be. And Leon cannot follow, not there.’

Scalding heat burned up from Marcus’s stomach. ‘And then? If we’re free? Sauron said we had to die or learn to live with what we are.’

‘He is right. It is either the one or the other.’

‘And he also said to keep a clear head, because when we’re together.’ He shut his teeth. ‘I’ve never been one to chase after sex, and even now, I still desire others, which is something of a relief to me, actually, but this is hardly the time to think about relationships.’

Vanimórë nodded. ‘Good. It is not healthy to be fixated upon one person, and certainly not the exclusion of all others, unless thou wert meaning to settle down and have children.’ He glinted with humour.

‘Not in this world or any other,’ Marcus laughed shortly.

‘But Sauron is correct. He usually is, galling though it may be. And for now, and for a little time after, thou must indeed keep a clear head. In fact thou shouldst always keep a clear head.’ Ruefully. ‘Trust me. We are living in the results of my _not_ having one.’

‘I know it, and that’s my intention,’ Marcus said. ‘In Valinor, I want to offer my help, to Maglor and Tindómion, Luc, who _will_ go, Claire if she chooses it. It seems only fair after what I did, and anyhow, where else is there to go. I won’t stay here.’

‘No, I agree thou must go. Ask Maglor and Tindómion what it is like to live undying in this world for Age upon Age. Or do not even ask; look in their eyes and thou wilt see it. But from Valinor thou canst go nowhere. Not yet. When the Elves ascend, the Timeless Halls will be opened to thee all.’ Vanimöré considered him in the gloaming. ‘Hast thou told Maglor of thy desire?’

‘Not yet. If he refuses...I am not staying here, even so. And Leon...’

‘When Sauron is gone, he will turn completely to thee.’ A faint, elusive smile gleamed. ‘Thou canst feel how it tears him apart, this loyalty to my father, and the need to be with thee. Leon needs someone to _follow_. He is the part of Vanimöré who desired to serve, and did it very well, just as thou art the part of him who wanted to resist, to be free and order thine own life. But _his_ nature requires structure, command, order which is why, I have no doubt, he joined the RAF and then the DDE. Together thou couldst be formidable.’

‘Or disastrous,’ Marcus said flatly.

‘Or disastrous,’ Vanimórë agreed. ‘It is not natural, this splitting of one into two. And neither is this lust of thine because it comes from that place where the break occurred; it is the need to be rejoined, to be one person again. To be whole.’

‘I _know_!’ Marcus thrust his hands into his hair. ‘And Sauron said even if we were together, sex solves nothing. And it wouldn’t be enough, would it? He was right in that it is simply the closest I can envisage being to him.’

‘Yes, I think thou wouldst always strive and strive to be closer, but sex would not bring thy souls back together. It sounds too much like devouring, to me, or an attempt at it. Like Ungoliant, forever gluttonous, forever famished.’

‘Yes,’ Marcus dropped his hands. ‘Well, let us get past Midsummer’s Eve, and then I will think on it.’

Vanimórë lifted his head, looked through the pale twilight. ‘There is going to be a great deal of power here.’ He went down on the sand in a hunter’s crouch, laid his hand flat. ‘Feel.’

Marcus looked a question, then followed suit. His eyes met Vanimöré’s.  
‘Like something — an engine — under the earth.’

‘Partly it is because two gods are gathered here,’ Vanimórë said, coming with unearthly grace to his feet. ‘The Sun and the Spirit of Winter, but there is more than that. Eru, I would guess, since I cannot locate the source. The stones are being awakened, being powered, but for what purpose?’

‘The stones? Then there’s truth in the old tale that there was a stone circle around the village?’

‘Oh, yes. One can still see some of them. I will walk the perimeter later, but now I must see my father.’

‘You know where he is?’

‘I always know where he is.’

Marcus set his shoulders. ‘Then I’d like to come with you.’

Vanimórë frowned at him, then abruptly shrugged and said, ‘It probably is not wise, but come if thou wilt.’

He turned and strode up the beach, then into the rough woods where the hills fell to the loch. The air was still, mild as warm milk, and a great silence of waiting fell over sea and sky.  
And beneath the quiet, the ground hummed.

OooOooO

~ Leon knew when Marcus was coming. The knowledge manifested as the constant ache in the centre of his being intensifying, curling outward to lick through his veins until his skin burned as with fever. But something else came with him; something that felt like a building storm. _Fire and darkness and burning ice_.  
And he knew that presence, too.

He had showered, and changed into jogging bottoms and t-shirt, sitting in the dim bedroom and thinking, wondering how the hell he and Marcus could ever be together. Determined that they would be.

He shivered, shifted in his seat as the energy moved closer, then got up quickly and went to the window. The breeze smelt of salt water and pine and the twilight was numinous; anything might come out of it, out of the dark, crouching mountains, the still waters. He pushed the window wide —

—And saw them coming, gleaming. Marcus and Vanimöré.

Instinctively, he drew back, remembering the agony of Thuringwethil’s venom burning him up like black flame, unendurable, and through it, Vanimöré’s eyes, luminous, utterly cold, rinsed of emotion. And his words:  
 _Blood can mean nothing — and everything. But we_ all _have a choice, Leon St. Cloud._

The report of the gun and his death came almost simultaneously. A mercy, until he found himself in the unending, dusty labyrinth of the Halls of Mandos and the insectile focus of the god who ruled them. He shuddered at the memory and brushed himself as if he felt spiders running over his skin.

But Vanimórë had spoken truly. Everyone has a choice, and Leon had made his: to serve Mairon. And he, too, had spoken the truth when he said the choice was a hard one. Even now, he was unsure what he would have done had Thuringwethil not set her poison in his veins. The plan, devised by Mairon, had been for him to walk out of Rochord Manor and continue to work for the DDE as a double agent. Whether or not he would have confessed to Vanimöré, was a moot point now, yet he had been drawn almost irresistibly toward him. A kinder master than Mairon, and a harder one. And as pitiless as his father.

He slipped silently, quickly down the staircase. Mairon was in the study, the rich dark room lit by one lamp. An ice bucket, champagne and glasses stood on the table.  
‘Yes,’ Mairon said, not looking up. ‘I was expecting him.’

Leon felt a surge of energy from him, excitement, satisfaction. There was no knock, only the heavy _clunk_ of the front door closing. After a moment, Vanimórë and Marcus entered the room.

‘Hello, father,’ Vanimórë said easily. ‘It seems like only yesterday, not thirteen billion years.’

‘That long?’ Mairon returned. ‘How time does fly.’

Vanimórë walked to a deep armchair and sat down, crossing one leg.  
‘Leon.’ His eyes widened provocatively. ‘How very _alive_ thou art looking. I wish I could say the same for Howard. Remember him?’

Leon stiffened, felt the flush hit his cheekbones like a splash of hot paint. As if testing and releasing him, Vanimórë returned his gaze to Mairon. The air between them positively crackled.  
Marcus moved to stand beside Leon, who turned his head. His twin was so close he could have kissed the straight jaw. His pulse jumped, and he saw the heartbeat racing in time with his own under Marcus’ smooth skin. He bit back a groan and heard Marcus’ shortened breath.

Vanimórë rose again from his seat and went to the table, uncorking the champagne and pouring four glasses.

‘Thank you,’ Mairon said smoothly. ‘Why bring him?’ he indicated Marcus. ‘You will get no sense out of those two when they are together.’

‘They have to learn control, no?’ Vanimórë proffered glasses to Leon and Marcus with a faint, amused smile. ‘If they do not, they will be useless both to themselves and everyone else. But that is their choice. So,’ he turned away from them, leaned against the table. ‘Why art thou here, father?’

‘I found a Mirror shard, my son. As I am sure you have ascertained. Fascinating.’

‘Unfortunate.’

‘Not for me.’

‘Obviously. But I asked _why_ thou wert here, not how.’

‘You were clearly not going to come to the Timeless Halls, so I must needs come to you.’

‘And here thou art. And have destroyed thy counterpart here.’

‘I did not need the complication.’ And, over a sip of the pale bubbles: ‘You were a fool, you know. You acted precipitately, out of passion and madness. Had you come to me...what worlds we could have created.’

Vanimöré threw back his head and laughed; it was a bright, mirthless sound. Mairon looked back at him, a small smile on his mouth. Then he flicked two fingers at Leon and said, ‘The both of you, go.’

Leon bristled. Marcus looked at Vanimórë who shrugged, leaving it up to him.

‘Very well,’ Marcus said coolly. He finished his wine, and walked to the door feeling Leon behind him. Neither of them looked back.

OooOooO

‘I need to talk to you,’ Marcus said, as soon as the study door was shut behind them.

Leon caught his arm, drew him across the hall into the living room. It was dim and quiet save for an old clock marking time on the mantelpiece, and the curtains were drawn across the window. Marcus turned, held Leon away from him with both hands, and Leon’s sprang up to grip his forearms like twin vices.  
‘I said _talk._ ,’ Marcus snapped. ‘He’s right; they both are. We must learn control. We must not think with our cocks!’

‘I don’t.’ Leon’s eyes were vivid as lamps in the gloom. ‘Neither do you. We’re the same. So awfully damn _choosy_. Aren’t we? _Aren’t we_? This feeling is only with _you._ ’

‘I know. But we _have_ to conquer it.’ Marcus was fully aroused and furious at his reaction. ‘We’re not animals! We are nor _orcs_ , like that creature who raped you. Listen to me! Vanimórë said he will take Sauron back to the Timeless Halls once we have crossed into Valinor. And that means—‘

Leon knew what it meant. The spark leapt to a blaze. He laughed, then, white teeth gleaming.  
‘Yes!’ he exclaimed. ‘Then we’re free!’

‘You are, Leon, and no, stay where you are! In Valinor, when the dead are released and reborn, there will have to be a long time of healing. Maglor and Tindómion will take charge. I want to offer them my help.’

Leon’s lingering smile turned cynical. ‘With our past record?’

‘Maglor knows we are not the same person,’ Marcus said impatiently. ‘To take vengeance upon me would be pointless, and that is what _he_ has said, not me. Yes, I am sure if he had met me — us — as we were, he would have and rightly. Tindómion feels the same.’

‘Perhaps he does think that,’ Leon acknowledged. ‘but what of his brothers, his father, when they return from death?’

‘I’ll deal with that when the time comes. The question is, what will _you_ do? You cannot follow him to the Timeless Halls; it is a place of gods, even the Elves cannot go there.’

Leon’s grip loosened a little. ‘If he lets me go, _if_ , then I will not consider myself bound to him.’ For a moment, there was a lost expression in his eyes, then it vanished in a glittering challenge. ‘And then, will you bind me to _you_ , soul-brother?’ He tilted his head, quizzical, maddening. Under the soft material of his leggings, he was rigid. As was Marcus. For all his words, the wild hunger burned in him like wildfire. His brother’s scent, magnified by body-heat, was musk and spice and incense.

Marcus said hoarsely. ‘I do not have to.’ And he thought of Vanimöré’s words: _Leon needs someone to follow._. He remembered when they had been one person, one soul.

He caught a handful of the streaming hair and wrenched Leon’s head back. His twin’s neck curved in submission, long lashes dropping shut over his eyes.  
‘Do I?’ He brought his mouth close to the one that parted to show a gleam of white teeth. ‘ _Do I_ , Leon?’

OooOooO

‘Thou art right,’ Vanimórë said. ‘Shall we get that over with? I _was_ a fool.’

Sauron’s brows quirked. ‘Well, at least you own it. So — what is your plan?’

‘If thou wert observing through the shard, thou knowest quite well, or could make a guess.’

‘To rescue Maglor from his wandering, and his son, if Tindómion’s chosen fate is the same. To pull down the Valar, or at least those deserving of it, and to give Valinor — and ultimately, the Timeless Halls — to the reborn Elves when thou hast raised them to godhood.’ Sauron recited it as if from a well-worn script, bored.

‘If I had not been a fool, then it would not be needed, but as matters stand, it is my duty.’ Vanimórë finished the champagne and set his glass down carefully.

‘Why now, thy this particular time?’ his father inquired. ‘It offers so little challenge.’

‘I was in this time before the end. Not this world, but one very similar. I suppose it was simple curiosity to see another world like — and unlike. No real reason.’

‘And of course whenever you set foot upon any world, I — or rather my counterpart — can draw on your presence here to escape from the Void.’ Sauron laughed at that. ‘How awkward and how amusing! Well, I have disposed of this one, anyhow. And yet, he was quite interesting in his own way, Arthur May, dealer in antiques and esoterica, slowly exerting control over the governments of the world.’

‘Well, he _is_ thee. I would expect no less.’

His father raised his glass in acknowledgment. ‘You must be so utterly _bored,_ ’ His teeth showed. ‘Only a little better than the Outside, I wager. Such an _arid_ existence, my son. No lovers, no friends, nothing but wealth and aloneness and duty. But you are used to it, are you not?’ His gentleness was pure poison.

Vanimöré gave him nothing. ‘I am,’ he said evenly. ‘I prefer it, and so dost _thou_.’

‘Of course, we are so alike, and you were always so _discerning_.’ Sauron rose and reached out. His fingers were hot as they traced down Vanimöré’s brow, his cheek, to his jaw. ‘When you had the choice. Except when you were experimenting, or when your sense of honour trapped you as with Dana.’ He clicked his tongue.

‘Everyone has to learn. And after Angband and Barad-dûr...ah they taught me what I did _not_ want, father: the stink of orc. The reek of wolf. The demon fire of Balrogs. It taught me to desire only the finest.’

‘And the finest are so very rare.’

‘Rare, and they are gone, and those in these worlds owe me nothing. It is I who owe them.’

‘If you say so.’ with a shrug. ‘That is your choice.’ Sauron dipped two fingers in his champagne, brought them to Vanimöré’s mouth and pushed.  
Vanimöré’s lips parted; he tasted the dry wine, and minerals and fire.

‘I trained you well, did I not, my little whore?’ Sauron’s words were like a flaying knife, so sharp one could not, at first, feel the cut. ‘You _never_ respond to gentleness. It bores you.’ His fingers thrust deeper. Vanimórë did not gag. He was indeed well-trained. He sucked as, with a dark smile, eyes on his, Sauron slowly, tormentingly, withdrew. He stroked Vanimöré’s neck, down to the hollow of his throat.  
‘Which is why your love for your beautiful Elgalad could only have been sorcerous. Eru _wanted_ you to love him. And you were ripe to fall. You idiot.’ He lifted his hand for a light, stinging slap. Vanimórë did not move. Only his eyes narrowed.

‘Oh, come,’ his father chided. ‘He is not your _type_. No orc out of the pits stinking of shit and blood, or Dana raping you, demanding you service her howling emptiness, no groping Man with dried semen under his fingernails. Elgalad was a beauty, and an Elf, your kin. But there was no _fire_. Only guiltless love.’

‘I thought that was what I needed. And I did love him. It was not the passion I felt for others, but it was love.’

‘You _needed_ to love. Oh, Elgalad and Eru knew precisely how to play you.’ Sauron took Vanimöré’s chin in his hand ungently.

‘Of course he did,’ Vanimöré replied coldly. ‘I was his son.’

‘The rebel son. Yes. Well, now you must learn how to play Eru, or he _will_ play you again. Be warned.’

‘Oh, I know exactly what Eru is,’ Vanimöré told him harshly.

‘Do you? Do you really? I do not, but one may make an educated guess. One thing he is, is a perfectionist. He wants everything to be as it was: A universe to dwell in, to rule, gods who love him. For everyone to love him. He wants it _all._ ’ The lucent lavender had faded utterly from his eyes. They burned red-gold as the deep fires of the Sammath Naur. ‘But this time, he will pick only those he wants for his new universe. Those he loved and now hates. Hate is as great a motivation as love.’

Vanimórë flashed a smile as he pulled away. ‘Oh, father, I _know._ ’ He poured them more champagne. ‘What didst thou see in the Silmaril?’ he asked.

‘I will give you an answer — of some kind — for an answer. You cannot mean simply to go from world to world like this. So what then?’

‘Oh? Do I not have time? All the time in eternity?’

‘How dull. It is always the same. Maglor and yes, sometimes Tindómion wandering long after the Elves have passed from the world. Save one,’ Sauron said thoughtfully. ‘Gil-galad. Which is hardly surprising, since it would hurt Tindómion.’*

All at once, Vanimórë was in the black aftermath of Gil-galad’s death, hearing the thin, haughty voice of Manwë offering him _mercy_ , if he abdicated all that he was, everything he believed in. And he remembered Tindómion’s horror and agony at the pronunciation of Gil-galad’s sentence. No gentleness, no peaceful sojourn in the Halls of Waiting, but the Void. And no pity. None at all. Thus there would never, in any world, be pity for the Valar, not from him.

‘Vanimórë!’ Again, Sauron slapped his face, sharply. ‘Attend me! What are your plans?’

‘I spoke to Celebrimbor.’ Vanimórë spoke though set teeth. ‘He wants them back. He wants me to bring them all back from the destruction of the old universe. How is that for a plan?’

‘Of course he does. Old news. I could have told you that thirteen billion years ago. His grief was rather...excessive. As was yours. And look at the results. All of your new universes are permutations on the old one that is gone. Because your hate was greater than your love. And so, how does my so-clever Tyelpe suggest you bring back the dead?’

‘The Silmaril,’ Vanimórë reminded him. ‘Answer for answer.’

Sauron came around the desk. ‘You already know,’ he taunted. ‘Or should. I will tell you why you do not.’ His hands seized Vanimöré’s face; his eyes mapped over it as he spoke. ‘You detest your power. You feel it gives you an unfair advantage when for most of your life you had to _fight._ And you _do_ enjoy the fight. When things are too easy, you are bored. And you despise yourself and intellect for not guessing what would happen, not preventing it.’

‘Didst _thou_?’ Vanimórë hissed at him. ‘So-clever Mairon? Didst thou not guess?’

‘I had both Maedhros and Maglor in my hands,’ Sauron replied lightly, as if it did not matter, the torture he had inflicted on them, their horror, the pain. And it did not, not to him. ‘I felt the fire that burned in them, that came to them from their sire. Celebrimbor possessed it also. It was a vast pity that Melkor did not capture Fëanor rather than send Balrogs to slay him. Poetic, perhaps, demons of fire to kill the spirit of fire but such a _waste._ But no,’ he admitted. ‘I did not know what would happen, what Fëanor could do. I should have. His potential, even if he himself did not know it, is why, in any universe, the Valar would never release his soul after death, unless they had broken it beyond all recognition.’

Vanimórë stared. ‘The Void did not break his soul; nothing could. And he does not exist _here_. I know that. I am not looking for Fëanor. As thou hast said, all these worlds are similar to the universe that is gone. I _know_ the Valar would never release him. They would not punish him as they punished me, in this reality, born human as Marcus and Leon, albeit they are immortal now. That would be giving Fëanor freedom, if only briefly, until he died as a Mortal. Believe me, I would _feel_ him alive. As it is, I feel only.’ He stopped. His eyes widened. ‘The Silmarils,’ he said slowly.

Sauron paced the room slowly, gesturing with one hand for him to continue. ‘And what are the Silmarils?’

‘We both know what they are.’

‘Yes. They always contain part of Fëanor’s soul. In fact—‘ Sauron paused. ‘They gave me the idea of placing some of my own soul in the One Ring, of binding myself to it.  
But the Silmarils are, so far as I can ascertain, _grown_ out of Fëanor’s very soul.’

‘Grown?’ Vanimórë repeated. ‘Created out of nothing?’ But that was the act of a god. Yet had Fëanor not been almost a god even before ascension?

‘Hmm, one of your great defects, my son, among many, is not wanting to look, to _see._ Everything can be looked upon. Everything is there to be seen.’

In Barad-dûr, Vanimórë had seen too much of Maglor’s private life and thoughts; they had flooded from him while he was unconscious. It had been revealing, useful at the time in bringing Maglor back from the brink (if that was what it had done) but it had also given Vanimöré a distaste into prying into peoples’ privacy. Melkor and Sauron had always been able to see into his own mind, at least until his apotheosis, and there was a horrible vulnerability to it, a nakedness before Power.  
‘No,’ he flashed. ‘I had nowhere to hide from Melkor, and from thee, until the One Ring was destroyed, and even from the Void thou couldst observe me. no? Ties of blood are ties that bind. Eternally. And what am I, some dirty-minded voyeur to spy? That is why I do _not_ look unless it is _necessary_ , and never at personal and private moments; it is why I would rather sit in the Monument until Time itself crumbles to dust!’

‘That delicate conscience of yours,’ Sauron murmured. ‘Most inconvenient. No wonder you prefer to sit in your eyrie and do nothing, see nothing, think nothing. But yes, the Silmarils were almost created out of nothing. Three small diamonds hardly bigger than a thumbnail. Fëanor grew the Silmarils from them, rather in the way I grew the stone of my tower. All I required was a small amount of the stone to work with. Fascinating, do you not think?’

‘Indeed.’ It was. But not impossible, considering the maker. ‘Go on.’

‘And so, consider this: The Silmarils were a part of Fëanor, the product of his mind, his soul, and were the one place that could protect it. From the Valar, even from Melkor. Relatively safe, that is, since neither could truly use the Silmaril and could not break them, either. You will not look into the Halls of Mandos, neither will Celebrimbor. I have.’

‘Well?’

‘If I did not know better I would entertain serious doubts that you were my get,’ Sauron shot at him, scathing. ‘Very well. As you have said, you would feel Fëanor, and you do not, but you feel the Silmarils. You feel his soul.’ Sauron paused, smiled slowly. ‘In this world...he is not in the Halls of Mandos at all. Whether consciously or subconsciously, he placed _all_ of his dying soul within them.’

Vanimórë ignored the insult. ‘Bloody Hells, of course! There would be nowhere else. And the last Silmaril —‘

‘Is in that black lake, yes.’ Sauron’s smile deepened. ‘So when you bring the three together—‘

‘—Then Fëanor is free.’

Sauron’s long lashes lowered. The cream-and-wine smile still hovered. ‘That would seem to be the case,’ he said.

OooOooO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Tindómion has dreamed of Gil as a dancer, but this is from Narya’s wonderful ‘Bluebirds’ 
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/20938430/chapters/49779395
> 
> Clearly, Sauron has seen this in the Mirror shard


	23. ~ Like Thunder in the Bones ~

  
  
  
  
  


~ Like Thunder in the Bones ~ 

~ If I tell Maglor he will summon the Silmaril out of the Blackwater now,’ Vanimórë said. ‘And fight the creature that will follow it. That does not trouble me. He _will_ kill it. In the old world he fought and slew Lungorthin. And his son will be at his side.’ This with a glittering smile at his father. ‘But the village must be evacuated first.’

‘Such conscience,’ Sauron mocked. ‘But have it your way. And I agree that the Fëanorions will slay it.’ His smile taunted. ‘Why do you think I captured Maglor? You believed, then, that I meant to break him, and it suited me to allow you to think it, but you and he together as my generals...’ He raised a hand as if cupping the world.

‘I did not realise that was thy plan until too long after.’ Vanimórë leaned forward, crushing his rage. ‘But thou wouldst have had to break him or kill him. He would not have served thee, not willingly. He knew well enough who tormented Maedhros in Angband, and who oversaw his torture.’

‘Yes, I was under orders and it was, I must admit, a compelling study.’ Sauron sounded as if he were remembering some long-ago experiment. ‘He was so strong, in mind, in spirit, in body. All the Exiles were, but some of them were like to the first Quendi, like Elérnil-that-was and those who became the _Ithiledhil_. Maedhros Fëanorion was one of them. He and Maglor had that metal.’ He flicked a look. ‘Of course something went wrong there, did it not? Edenel-Elérnil should have sired Fëanor and Fingolfin.’

‘Thou didst see that in the shard?’

‘Everything that can happen has happened _somewhere_ , is that not true?’ Vanimórë nodded briefly. ‘And that _should_ have happened there. It _did_ happen in one of these universes you spun out of the dust of the End. Because you saw it.’

‘I saw it, yes.’ He remembered, with a wave of grief for what was gone, his passionate fight, half serious, half-lustful with Fëanor near the Portal, and how he had followed Fëanor into that world where he had joined with him _self_ , two-in-one, defeating the Balrogs who would have slain him in Dor Daedaloth.* One day Vanimórë would go back there, or observe it from the Monument. But what he had not known, was that it was a vision of a future world, behind the End.

_If I had known, if I had looked..._

He fought back the pain that never truly left him, was only locked away, and considered it fortunate his father had elected to come here, not meddle in any of the other worlds. Or had he? From here, his powers so curtailed, Vanimórë could not tell.

Sauron read his thoughts and smiled like a cat. Controlling his impulse to violence, Vanimórë said, ‘Everything that can happen has happened, yes, which is why it is bootless to change anything; it will simply happen in another reality. But for all that,’ he rose and walked to the window. ‘I do not believe I can undo what was done and bring back those who are gone.’

‘No?’ Sauron challenged.

‘But I have all-but vowed Celebrimbor to attempt it.’ Vanimórë drew a circle on the closed curtains with one forefinger.  
‘The Ancient Universe, brought into being by Eru’s own creator, whomever _they_ are. Whatever came before that, we do not yet know.’ Then he drew a cross through it. ‘Eru destroys it. In the darkness after, I met Eru’s spirit and we struggled. In that battle—‘ Another circle. ‘Our own universe was created.’ He crossed that one out with a tremor that went to his bones. ‘Destroyed by the meeting of the Flame Imperishable and Melkor. And so this universe, which I danced into being.’ He turned. ‘One progressing from another. Dost thou see?’

Sauron steepled his hands. ‘Of course. You think that each one had to be destroyed before the other was born.’

‘And if bringing them back means or even implies that I need to destroy these new ones, I will not do it.’

‘Why would that be necessary?’ His father’s eyes narrowed. ‘You have already gone back to the Ancient Universe.’

‘And had I not, perhaps it would not have been destroyed. I fomented rebellion against Eru.’ Vanimórë folded his arms. ‘And had it _not_ been destroyed then our own would not have been created.’

‘Yes, I see, but we are not speaking of a new universe or of the death of any. We are speaking of people. _That_ is what Celebrimbor and you yourself want back, is it not? Them.’

‘And they are fixed in that Time, that universe. Their lives, their deaths. If I brought them out of it, then there would be no destruction and these universes would not exist.’ Frustratedly, he paced the room.

‘Is this new, or did you spend thirteen billion years to come to this conclusion?’ his father asked sardonically. ‘If so, you wasted your time. Now, I imagine Celebrimbor has not given up.’

‘I have promised we will think on it. He seems to think thou canst help.’ He directed a frown at Sauron.

‘Possibly, but why would I want to? I care nothing whether they return or not.’

‘Then I dare say we will make shift without thee.’ Vanimórë shrugged, knowing his father would not be able to resist pitting his brain against the seemingly-impossible.

‘But first, this world.’

‘This world. Midsummer’s Eve. The Portals will not open until then, and so I will not tell Maglor of what I have learned. He will know, soon enough.’

‘You could open the way from the Outside any time you wished. Or had that not occurred to you?’ Maliciously sweet.

Vanimórë merely looked at him. ‘No, really? Eru — for it must be — is powering these stones for a reason. I want to see why. So I will wait.’

Sauron said, warning: ‘You cannot meet Eru face to face.’

‘I met him _face to face_ , after the end of our universe,’ Vanimórë told him, forcing calm. ‘He and I cannot engage in conflict, rather. Well, I will not. If I was going to do that, it would have been then.’

‘I would not put any wagers on that,’ Sauron glinted. ‘You have not lost your impulsiveness, I am sorry to note.’

‘I am learning. I had enough time, after.’

Sauron regarded him with a maddening, lilting smile. ‘I wonder if you have learned anything.’

‘I learned,’ Vanimórë said quietly, cold. ‘I learned how to be alone.’

‘Hmm, well, I would not come to enjoy it too much, my son. You do realise that with Eru you are dealing with someone who probably went mad from being alone?’

‘Oh yes,’ Vanimórë assured him. ‘In the Monument,’ his mouth curled in remembered distaste, ‘I imagined how easy it would be to recreated them in my mind, to people the nothingness with their memory. A harem of my own, to use at will.‘

‘Slut,’ Sauron pronounced mildly.

Vanimórë took no offence. He laughed shortly. ‘I was never that needy, father.’

‘No,’ Sauron nodded. ‘It is one of the few estimable things about you: your strength.’

‘But that is one of the reasons I visit other worlds, to remember there is life beyond,’ Vanimórë said. ‘And yet not being able to be oneself grows wearisome. But Eru...it was his choice to accept nothing less than all. To hide himself away. And even now, he hides.’ He returned to the window, pulled back the curtains on the twilight. ‘Up there, no doubt, on the hills, giving power to the stones. Charging them. Why?’ he wondered. ‘Why?’

OooOooO

‘Wait.’ Marcus drew back, releasing Leon’s hair.  
‘We wait. We control ourselves or we’re useless. Do you understand? There is no _point_ to us if we face only one another, if we’re obsessed with each other.’  
Brittle tremors shook over his flesh like an ague. Leon’s eyes, as he opened them, were a vivid, smouldering violet between the shock of black lashes.  
‘If you say so, Marcus.’ His reply was mocking, yet dreamy.

‘Remember who you _were,_ ’ Marcus commanded him. ‘Think of who we _are._ Vanya concealed us from one another until recently and it is well she did. We lived our own lives. We are _more_ than this hunger, and we can be more than we are, _together_.’ He leant his brow against Leon’s. ‘We learn to live with it, or we die, and hope to be born again as one. Which would you prefer?’

Leon drew back. His expression hardened. ‘Yes, that is it, isn’t it? Either, or.’

‘There’s no other way for us.’

‘I don’t know, Marcus. I just don’t know. So if just one of us died, what would happen? Would that part of our soul somehow enter the one who lived, or would we both need to die?’

‘Unknown.’

Abruptly, Leon turned away from him.  
‘We’ve been ourselves, yes, unaware what we were, knowing only something was missing. And now...I can’t answer you, not yet.’ He shook his head, said restlessly: ‘Let’s go out.’

He lead Marcus down through the the quiet kitchen, through a utility room and out of the back door. It was lighter outside, a still and otherworldly dusk-light against the which the mountains rose and the pregnant moon showed between reefs of cloud.

The garden smelt of lavender, of cut grass. Leon trod down a mossy path to a gate and opened it to track leading up into the hills. Part of the way up, he paused, looked back. The Lodge chimneys were below them; half a mile away, the windows of the Carron Hotel glowed. The loch glimmered like dark silver.

Marcus joined his brother, felt the heat of his body.

‘What happens to the estate when we go?’ Leon asked softly.

‘The Clouds is gutted, as you must know.’

Leon nodded curtly, a grimace curling his mouth.  
‘It was never a home.’

‘It was worse than that,’ Marcus said sombrely, remembering the terrible night of fire. ‘The ghosts of dead children and their murderers.’

‘I know.’ At Marcus’s questioning look. ‘It was a family secret. My parents never spoke of it, but it was known that if twins were born sometimes one of them tragically “died”. To give them credit, our parents would never have considered that path, I’m sure.’

‘I’m sorry about the accident,’ Marcus said gently.

Leon shrugged it off. ‘So am I, but by that time I knew who I was. My uncle Roland’s death affected me more.’

‘And our _father_ sent Thuringwethil to kill him.’

‘Yes,’ Leon said. ‘I know. Well? What do you want me to say? He is — was — our father. I _chose._ Go on.’

Marcus let it lie for the moment.  
‘The horses, the Chantilly place, go to Lola Clyde, with sufficient finances; the Hall to Ellie with a pension that will more than cover repairs and any work that needs to be done. Don’t worry; it is all arranged.’

There was a haunted expression in Leon’s eyes. ‘Good. Ellie used to feed me you know, the few times we came here. She said I was too thin.’

Marcus said, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘For what? Poor little rich boy?’ Leon laughed acerbically. ‘Don’t pity me, brother. I cannot stand _pity_ and most certainly not from you. We were _both_ privileged. And I liked Eton, the RAF and MI6.’

‘We were both privileged,’ Marcus agreed, thinking again on Vanimöré’s words that Leon needed order, structure. ‘But Vanya cared for me.’

‘A toss of the coin,’ Leon returned. ‘Just luck. It might have been me.’

‘And I might not have made the same choices. I am the part of Vanimöré who wanted to rule himself, make his own decisions.’

‘And I’m the part that lived to serve him, wanted him to be proud of me,’ Leon said with a faint, wry smile. ‘So how does the twain meet? Do you even want that?’

Leon narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you saying you don’t?’

‘I’m saying I don’t _know_. I only know that I want _us._ ’ He caught Marcus’ shirt front. ‘You know,’ he drawled. ‘I’m not even sure it’s love. I don’t believe we even liked ourself much in the old days, did we?’

‘It is not love,’ Marcus agreed, as his pulse leapt and desire exploded under his skin. ‘It is far deeper than love.‘ It was elemental, like the demarcation line between day and night torn asunder. There was no name he could give it. ‘Do you feel different, after coming back?’

‘Yes. Do you, after being given Vanimöré’s blood?’

‘Yes. It’s like—‘

‘Becoming what you should have been? Yes! I was always strong. I was never ill. I was _very_ good at rugby, at Eton.’ He smiled tightly. ‘But I always felt there was _more_ , that there was a potential I could not reach.’

‘And now we have reached it.’

‘But we cannot _live_ that potential, not here.’ Leon threw back his head. ‘But it’s so _close_. Can you feel it?’

‘I can feel it.’ Like the approach of thunder shaking the bones, like the imminent explosion of a sun. Marcus looked up at the mountains.

Above them the track climbed through whin and boulders. On the skyline stood a tall shape; hair blowing like a stream of silver.

Leon, following his gaze said, ‘Well, well. Elgalad.’ And, at Marcus’ look. ‘The second body that Mairon and Eru took from the morgue.’ His expression closed like a slammed door.

There had been no Elgalad in this world, until now, and yet Marcus knew him through the deeper foundation of Vanimöré, who’s counterpart he was.

One did not mention it to Vanimórë, certainly not Marcus, who did not feel he had earned the right to presume, but what Elgalad had done was not some lover’s mistake that could be patched up in months of years. It had coldly, calculatedly unfolded over thousands of years and been planned for an eternity before, and the pain (and shame) still lived deep under Vanimöré’s enamelled exterior.

Marcus went up the steep track like a mountain goat, and when he reached the top Elgalad had not moved, only looked at him with eyes, that in the twilight showed lucent, clear as dew. Unfathomable eyes, because when one looked into them, there was no ending, no opacity at all. They could drink down a universe, those eyes, set in the face of a marble angel.

He raised his hand to strike or push, he was not sure, only to have it caught in Leon’s steely grip. He whirled back, enraged.  
‘ _What_?’ he demanded.

‘Don’t you see he is Eru’s victim as well?’ Leon demanded. ‘Elgalad was made by him. By him, _for_ him. What choice did he have?’

Elgalad said nothing as Marcus glared into his brother’s eyes. Leon said, ‘I was there when Eru came for him after we were brought back from death.’

‘Alright,’ Marcus breathed tightly. ‘But let him answer for himself.’ He looked back at Elgalad. ‘Did you truly not have any choice?’

‘Sometimes I wonder.’ Elgalad’s voice was clear as rain. ‘Now, I will never know. I was made by Eru, yes, for Vanimórë and I loved him, then and now.’

‘Words mean _nothing_ ,’ Marcus flashed.

‘Perhaps not.’ The lovely silver head inclined. He glanced away for a moment, down toward the Lodge, and something surfaced in his eyes, a deep, deep yearning. Marcus did not trust it. Whatever else he was and had been, Elgalad was a superlative actor.  
‘But I am not here for me, or for him.’ He looked back at the twins.

‘Then why?’ Marcus asked.

‘Eru wanted me to become close to Claire,’ Elgalad said. ‘He swears he means her no harm, but even I cannot know what he intends. On Midsummer Eve, you will need to watch her. It behooves her to be wary.’

‘Claire?’ Leon exclaimed.

‘She is more than Claire.’ Elgalad took a step toward them. ‘In the Ancient Universe, she was Andûnië, the goddess who came down with the first full moon of autumn and her fingers touched the leaves to the colour of her hair. She was the mother of Vanimórë as Eru was his sire. Many of the gods bore children, but Eru sired only one. With her.’

The brothers stared at him and he said urgently: ‘I may be of Eru but I am myself too. I have lived — and died — in the world and he has not. He can and does conceal himself and his intentions from me. But I had to warn thee.’

‘We’re warned,’ Leon said flatly. ‘Believe me.’

‘I’ll tell her,’ Marcus nodded. ‘And Luc?’

‘Out of the wildwood of the First World. Once, trees like living towers anchored their roots in earth the hue of his eyes and skin. Carnán’s blood, in this world. A strength and an ally. He is already growing into his power, but will come into it wholly beyond the Portal.’ The clear eyes moved from one to the other. ‘On Midsummer Eve the ways will open. But to where? Vanimórë wishes to take Maglor and Tindómion to Valinor, and Luc and Claire of they elect to go, but there will be many gateways. Many.’

Marcus felt the hair lift on his scalp. ‘Do you mean to other worlds?’

‘Other worlds, other universes. I will help — if I can.’ Again he looked down at the Lodge. ‘I find I cannot deceive her. I am of him, yes, and he did - or does — love her. As do I; there is no choice in the matter. But the love of an Overmind — Eru, and Vanimórë— is like the nectar of the gods: Perilous; too strong for Mortals to taste.’ His gaze came back to them. Honey would not have melted on that tongue, on the beautiful curve of his lips. Marcus felt, as if though his bones, his blood, how Vanimórë had not been able to resist that sweetness.

‘You look so like him,’ Elgalad murmured, dulcet, then turned away and was gone, a silver glimmer in the dusk, a fading moon sinking below the rim of the world.

A shiver ran like ice-water over Marcus’ skin. He watched the shimmer fade and said quietly: ‘Come on. We have to tell then.’

OooOooO

~ Maglor watched his son’s profile until he could watch no longer and touched his shoulder. Tindómion rose and walked with him out into the garden.  
‘I know,’ he said simply, so that Tindómion smiled faintly.

‘I think I would make an exceedingly poor counsellor,’ he admitted. ‘I commanded my own warriors and dealt with the emotional shock of battle or injury, of course, but this...’ He shrugged helplessly.

Maglor nodded. ‘We felt the same when Maedhros was brought back from Angband,’ he said. ‘His waking dreams of torment, phantom pain even after his hand was healed. PTSD they call it now. It is not exactly the same for Elves as our bodies and souls are connected more completely and closely. Sometimes that works in our favour, sometimes it does —not.’

‘How did he face it?’ Tindómion asked. ‘Maedhros. How did he heal?’

‘He faced it because he could do no other, because he was his father’s firstborn, and would not let what had happened to him defeat him.’ Maglor’s aura burned up in the twilight, fiery silver. ‘He conquered it for us, for our father’s memory, for Fingon. But he never healed.’

‘No,’ Tindómion murmured. ‘I believe it.’

‘To look at him, one would not think it. Curufin and Celebrimbor designed him a silver hand, and but for that, one would think him whole. He said that must be enough and _oh_! he burned almost as brightly as our father, after, in rage and hatred against the Dark. He was a banner in battle.’

‘Then he will do the same when he walks from the Halls of Mandos,’ Tindómion said, gripping his father’s hand. ‘And this time there is no Doom upon thee, no Oath, and no Valar to chain us. And Fëanor, too, will be free. All of them, father, _all_ of them.’

Maglor’s heart jerked in his breast as it did every time he allowed himself to think of it, to _hope._ And he saw the same expression in his son’s eyes.  
‘They will come back, and they will heal,’ he vowed both to himself and Tindómion. ‘Perhaps Galadriel and Finrod and Finarfin will help. Finrod, yes, I believe he will.’

‘As I said, Galadriel never had any love for me; I was too Fëanorion.’ Tindómion’s mouth curved in faint humour. ‘But there will be those reborn she does care for.’

‘And Finarfin. I do not know,’ Maglor paused. ‘Did you ever meet him? He and his forces fought in the War of Wrath.’

‘Briefly,’ Tindómion replied, the smile gone. ‘Gil-galad went to the camp of the Valar with others of his personal guard. I was among them.’

‘And?’

Tindómion put up his perfect brows, looking so like Fëanor at his haughtiest that Maglor’s breath caught.  
‘My thoughts were on _thee_ father, and Maedhros. I was not thinking clearly and not in the best of tempers,’ he admitted ruefully. ‘He asked to see me, as kin, and I asked him _why_? Why did he come now, when he had not come before. All I could think, and all many thought in Beleriand and the North, was what a difference he and his forces might have made. It could have changed everything.’

‘I know,’ Maglor said. ‘It was a thing we all dwelt on at times.’

‘He could not answer me. He and his folk had fought well during those fifty years but they were not as us, battle-hardened, they looked like angels who had gone down into the pit. And so I walked away. Gil-galad understood, for he thought the same; how could he not?’ And then, hard and brittle: ‘It was worse for him. His father, his grandsire, both gone into darkness and death.’

‘He is waiting for thee,’ Maglor said gently and Tindómion laughed a whit wildly, as if he could not quite accept or envision it. ‘Thy mother too, Glorfindel, Elrond, friends long gone.’

‘I find it hard to believe,’ his son acknowledged, with strain cracking his melodious voice. ‘It has been so very long.’

‘Yes, I know. I feel the same.’ Maglor drew him close. Tindómion was as tall as he and as slim, with those wide straight shoulders. There was a saying here: _What is bred in the bone will come out in the flesh,_ and Tindómion carried his bloodline like a true-stamped image of both Maglor and Fëanor. He should have been able to live freely in passion and fire, not straightjacketed by the Valar’s mealy-mouthed and narrow laws. They all should.

They stood locked in embrace, lending strength and resolution to one another through the hard beating of their hearts, the hot pulse of their blood. At last Tindómion sighed, kissed his cheek.  
‘We will essay it,’ he vowed. ‘Somehow, some way, because we have to and we love them and want them to be _themselves_. What of Claire and Luc and Marcus?’

Maglor considered. Always there was that deep feeling of connection with Claire, dreams of another place, similar but different. And dreams, too, of a far older world, where she came down with the Harvest Moon and turned the leaves scarlet and gold...  
‘I cannot answer that. We know Luc will come and Marcus. Claire has greater ties to this world. I would like her to come,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘But I will not try to sway her. We give up nothing. She gives up everything she knows.’

‘Of course,’ Tindómion said. ‘Although, she may be human now, but that is not all she is. I would wish her to come, too.’

They walked down the driveway into the lane. The night was so still that the sound of a distant boat-engine starting up on the loch carried clearly across the water.

By unspoken consent they went on down the lane toward the village. The two houses they passed were dark, and it seemed the village too, was deserted, though a few lights showed at windows.

The road curved up and they stopped, looking back. Above the hills, over the Blackwater, a numinous silver light glowed in the sky. Maglor felt Tindómion’s hand lock on his wrist and they gazed at it, the waking light of the Silmaril breaking from the lake. When Maglor turned to look into his son’s eyes, he saw the same light shining there.

OooOooO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * That references these chapters from Magnificat of the Damned Book IV: Anvil.
> 
> This chapter: Shaking the Foundations.  
>  Beginning here: 
> 
> Fëanor’s mouth curved in a smile of pure temptation. ‘And what does one do for eternity, Vanimórë, as a god?’  
> ‘Let me show thee.’
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/8625451/chapters/37046070#workskin
> 
> And the next: Searching for Reality. 
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/8625451/chapters/37281161#workskin


	24. ~ Eyes that See the Night ~

  
  
  


**~ Eyes that See the Night ~**

~ Martha had entered the village unobtrusively, taking a taxi from the nearby train station.  
There had been no difficulty in booking a room at the inn on the harbour; in fact she was currently the only guest.

The days were long, the night hardly smudging it, the weather was benign and the views stupendous, so initially Martha was surprised at the paucity of guests. After less than an hour, she was not.

As the sun set below the world and yet the Highland twilight lingered, the atmosphere of the village changed. It felt like electricity on her skin. She was a pagan because, from childhood, she had been aware that there was something more than the physical world, something beyond the closed, blocked religions of East and West. Her redoubtable grandmother could see spirits, and tell fortunes by simply touching another’s hand. The gift seemed to have skipped a generation and shown itself in Martha. During her years of study and work it took a back seat, but was always there. Now, the fine hairs on the back of her neck were almost standing up and screaming.

She ate an excellent dinner, the only person in the cosy dining room, then grabbed a backpack, a walking stick from the rack in reception and went out.

The village lay quiet under the still and windless night. She followed the road until she came to the turning that lead to Duirinish Hall and waited for a moment, listening, but there were only the night-sounds of the loch and mountains: an owl, water-birds, the splash of something — fish perhaps, or otter, from the water. But under it all was something Martha could not put a name to, and it made her tilt her head as if to catch the sound. But there was no sound to hear; it was something almost in the bones.

The wider road curved up toward the hills, a pale stripe against the darker land. About fifty yards up, a stone stile gave onto a path. Martha climbed it, her walking boots gently hitting the dry earth on the other side.

She had done everything possible to not be traced and watched for a tail as she journeyed north on the trains. But she was cautious enough not to completely abandon her identity. She possessed a license for the gun she carried, her I.D. was clipped to the inside of her waistband, her pack held an old Nokia and a night-vision scope hung around her neck. Nestled under her vest was the necklace Lucien Steele had given her. Martha was not particularly superstitious, and did not think of the pendant as any kind of talisman, but her intuition insisted that it was far more than just a very expensive gift.

Her eyes had adjusted to the gloaming now, and she trod along easily, almost at a stroll, but with an inner eye open. The most dangerous predator to stalk the night was Man; she knew this, and was not overly concerned being highly trained in self-defence, and _offence._ But, unlike most people, Martha recognised that there were things that walked in the darkness that were older than Man, and far more perilous.

Here in the highlands, Midsummer had once been called St. John’s Eve, and was celebrated by bonfires and rituals. Once, animals had been sacrificed to the Sun God. In latter centuries, an animal bone was sometimes placed in the fires, taking the place of the living sacrifice. It was said that those who strayed near ancient sites on these nights would end up mad or lead away by the Fair Folk. People would jump over the sacred fires, or light bushels of heather from them and walk sun-wise around their fields and byres to ensure a plentiful harvest. As Martha thought of the DDE’s raid on Rockford Manor, the wealthy men who had been lead out, half-mad, babbling of having invoked Shamash, the Akkadian solar god. And she thought of Howard’s serial-killer daughter, and what had remained of her (or not remained). The dead woman’s bedroom had been bleached as pale as if subjected to a thousand years of desert sun.  
Martha recalled the notes in the deep files, written by Howard.  
 _Aelios_. Can use portals. Possible sighting of him with (triple) wings. (Seraphim?) Affinity with fire? And in brackets. ( _Power. Possible deity? Sun god? Extremely dangerous. Ally/warrior. Looks to L.S._ )

The sun was hidden now, though its light still held, a pale glow even under the high cloud, but it was not that which caused her to stop, staring. The low hill that rose like a shrug before her was dark, but above it the air glimmered silver.

She became intensely aware of the utter silence that had fallen and yet, still, _still_ that sensation of a sound beyond hearing. All at once she knew what it reminded her of. A few years ago she had spent a few weeks with friends in the rural Home Counties. Not far from the house a quarry was being dug for Fullers Earth, and the sound of the huge earth movers as they started up in the morning had trembled the old sash windows. That was the sensation, save this was more subtle.

She walked on a little way, but her breath came faster. She felt as if a hand were placed on her chest and pushing her back. _Keep away_! It was like walking into a steadily rising gale. Cold prickled down her spine.

 _Your instincts exist for a reason, girl,_ her grandmother had said. _Trust them._

Martha’s instincts were telling her to run; her inner pride and yes, curiosity, were urging her on.

She raised the scope, which only brought the eerie light over the hill into clearer focus, and then something moved. Martha’s mouth dried and her heart seemed to lodge in her throat.

It was a figure; they breasted the curve of the hill, began to walk down it. It moved in a nacreous glow, silvery, tall and graceful.

And Martha felt the otherness of it like a slam of power. It was not of this world, it was alien and impossible and wholly ambiguous in its power.

She was dressed in black clothes, but the night was not dark enough for her to blend into the shadows, and she felt suddenly, horribly conspicuous.

Slowly, she backed, feeling for the ground under her boots, not wanting to trip and fall. She let the scope hang down, but could still see the figure as it moved. It seemed, now, to be walking at an angle away from her. Even without the scope there was no mistaking it for a drift of mist or marsh gas; its form was too clearly delineated, pale robes, long, gleaming hair. Like something out of the _sidhe_ mounds. It was not evil; it was not good; such words had no meaning and broke against its force. It simply _was._

Quietly, forcing herself not to turn and bolt, Martha walked back and back until her hand touched the stone of the stile. Then she did turn to climb it.

For a moment, she looked back. The figure was more distant now, going inland, away from the village.  
Her breath coming hard and fast she half-walked, half ran down the road. Coming to the lane that lead to the Hall she hesitated, then turned away, hurrying back through the village, looking over her shoulder. Outside the frantic thud of her heart, the muffled fall of her boots on tarmac, the silence pressed, _listening_.

_The land feels it; every creature, every insect. Something vast walked through the night. And that’s...what I saw is not not even what it truly is. It’s something more...something that could stand on the world, stride through the stars..._

Her cheeks burned as if with a fever, her head felt hot and swollen and puffball-light.

The manager of the inn, pottering in the reception room, looked up as she burst through the door. He smiled at her vaguely, then looked again, and said concernedly: ‘Is there something wrong, lass?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘No, just...I’m tired. There wouldn’t be any chance any of a brandy would there?’

He nodded, but his expression was doubtful as he lead her into the empty lounge-bar and pushed two measures of brandy over the counter.  
‘Even in this place it’s not wise to roam around at night on your own.’ His voice was kind, but there was a warning behind it.

The spirit trailed a warming path down into her stomach.  
‘Thanks,’ Martha said, and meant it. He was not being patronising; neither was he referring to her gender and the possibility of her being assaulted. He was a villager. He knew.

‘Thank you. I’ll remember.’ And even as she took another sip of brandy, she knew that she would go out again at night — when Midsummer and all its power came down.

OooOooO

~ ‘The hotel and this lodge will be evacuated as well as the village.’ Vanimórë said. ‘Just in case thou art thinking of staying, to see how this plays out.’

‘Really?’ Sauron had come to stand close behind him. ‘How annoying. Then I suppose I will have to leave. Do you think Eru will go?’ The amusement in his voice flickered and died. ‘I _am_ a god here, after all. And you,’ his fingers trailed down Vanimöré’s spine, ‘Are not.’ He moved closer. ‘And part of you rather likes that.’

Vanimórë set his jaw so tightly that it ached. His father laughed, low and intimate as the brush of velvet against naked flesh.  
‘You miss it, do you not? So many thousands of years...they leave their mark.’ His fingers moved down to the base of Vanimöré’s spine and the flesh there flashed into nerve-searing pain as if the Red Eye brand he had bore so long still throbbed. It had ever been a reminder of who he belonged to. After his final ascension the brand had vanished, and yet now, the space it had occupied for so long, _burned_.

‘You miss those days, when everything was so clear, so clean cut,’ Sauron murmured. ‘Do not deny it; I told you once that I could read you like a scroll I had written, and whatever power you hold, I can still read you. I _know_.’

Vanimórë turned. ‘I do not deny things were so much simpler then.’

‘Favour for favour.’ Sauron whispered against his mouth. ‘Believe me, it will be worth it. Information, Vanimórë.’

‘Information? All I have to do is return to the Outside. And there, I know everything. And a favour? Sex was always about control to thee.’

‘Well, naturally. And still...what did they say of thee? _”All high cheekbones, passionate mouth and extraordinary eyes, as if an erotic god had fashioned him for sin then decided, almost on a whim, to also make him lethal.”_ A most pertinent observation.’ He laughed. ‘And if course you _could_ know everything, and so why do you not? Because you do not wish to know _everything_.’ Vanimórë felt the slow upward curve of his father’s lips against his own as Sauron smiled. ‘You will not allow yourself to become wholly omniscient save for under great duress. It takes away all humanity, I think. It takes away all that is _you_. Which would be a shame.’

That was indeed what Vanimórë feared and hated about his ascension to Overmind. He clung to what he had been, insofar as it were possible. To give that up, to become omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent was to risk losing himself; perhaps not all at once, but the day would come when he could no longer return from it. And it was not oblivion, which, in his soul, he longed for. It was something worse. Hence his chambers in the Monument, his creation of something that at least echoed living.

‘And yet, if you had looked, had you allowed yourself, you would have known that the meeting of Fëanor and Melkor would bring the End. But you wanted to enjoy just being among the ascended Elves. You fool.’ His hands came down on Vanimöré’s shoulders, hot, strong; the hands that had shaped the One Ring in Orodruin, and the past swept into Vanimöré’s mind like a tidal wave: Barad-dûr. Forced to kneel before a power stronger than he was, then, with all the cruel ties of the blood kink to bind and pull.

‘Yes, you always fought to the very end and beyond,’ Sauron said as Vanimórë resisted. ‘But sometimes, very rarely, you submitted and was it not a _relief_? Almost as great as the pleasure, just to let _go_. How long has it been since you gave yourself up to mastery?’

So very long. In a universe that was gone. Vanimórë simply stared into the ember eyes close to his own in bitter acknowledgment. His father knew him to the bone. He was,. perhaps the only one who did.

‘So fight as much as you like, here and now, son of mine. Because we both know — do we not ? — that in this world, you cannot win.’

‘Do not, as they say here, push thy luck, father.’

Sauron’s eyes crinkled briefly in genuine appreciation. ‘Oh Vanimórë, I always push my luck, and so,’ he added. ‘Do you.’

The weight on his shoulders became heavier. Vanimórë braced his legs and then remembered the Dagor Dagorath, being trapped in a nightmare of horror born out of his own imagination ( _When an Overmind dreams something, it is real._ ) and how Sauron had freed him from it.

His eyes narrowed on his father’s face, and then, slowly, he went to his knees.

OooOooO

~ The blown kiss still burned on his mouth like the kiss of ice with a fire deep beneath.

His mind had been shackled for so many Ages that only rarely did he even glimpse a cloud-blown memory, less than a memory even; a feeling that he had once been free. The kiss had been a Balrog’s lash of fire that cut through the smothering fog.

He had believed the Valar and Manwë, his master, were the greatest powers that existed. They had come from beyond the world at the beginning in light and strength, in darkness and earthquake, and claimed Arda for their own.

Eönwë had been born out of the wild storms, the hurricane winds, the thunder, the lightning-flash. There had been many spirits then, birthed from the earth and the sky, from the running waters and the raging seas. The strongest of them had been chained by Manwë or by Melkor to serve them for eternity.

Eönwë had fought; he had battled until his power was subsumed by Manwë, who after named himself the Lord of the Breath of Arda, commanding the winds as once Eönwë had. All the Valar had stolen from the spirits of the Earth. Even Varda of the Stars supped energy from the Sun until, dimmed, its bright god was ripe to fall to Melkor.

And then one day, after timeless year upon year, the skies had exploded over Aman in a shock of running fire and Power had come. The chamber where Manwë had hoarded the Silmaril was broken open and the gem had flown free like a loosed hawk. Commanded to pursue it, Eönwë and his warriors watched as a god took shape in the roiling air.

There was no lore that spoke of what Eönwë witnessed; no Valar had ever hinted that another god existed, and there was no memory of him in Eönwë’s chained mind. He _blazed_ like a black sun. Armed as a warrior, his jet hair whipped into and beyond the red-tinged clouds, and his eyes burned like backlit jewels.

Eönwë could remember when the Valar had first come down, pursing the rogue Melkor. They had been mighty then, and stronger yet after feeding on the powers of the Maia. But none of them, even Melkor, whose head was crowned with thunder, and who waded in the primal oceans, emanated a power like this.  
The god reminded Eönwë, with something like pain, of the Elves as they had been, the Unbegotten of Middle-earth and the fiery glory of the House of Finwë before the Doom.

The god’s chiselled features, the sheer vitality of him, brought Fëanor’s peerless face to mind. The Elves were not like that now, those few the Valar had permitted to live and serve in Ilmarin, were as flowers starved of sunlight, languid and listless and pale. This god brought to mind how brilliant they had been, his presence as startling as a shock of hot blood on untrodden snow.

The Silmaril had flown straight to him; he held it in a gloved hand as it pulsed with living light, silver-white, and dazzling. And then, even as Eönwë and his warrior were stopped as if a great hand held them back, the radiant god blew that kiss, and vanished in a storm that caused avalanches.

And Eönwë yearned to follow him — until Manwë’s mental chain wrapped around his neck and _pulled._

But...that taste of fire beneath a glacier.

The Valar came to Aman; some reluctantly. Varda had shown a lilting smile on her full mouth when she surveyed the rubble, all that was left of the the room where the Silmaril had been kept.

‘They would defy us,’ Manwë hissed. ‘Over the sea, in the darkened lands.’

After the god’s tumultuous departure, Eönwë had stood beside Manwë on the peak of Taniquetil. Manwë had drawn power from him so that storms lit the dim skies as a warning.

‘Who?’ Tulkas sipped from a goblet of white mead, one smith-brawny hand feeling idly at the serving woman’s rear. She was tall, clad in white, and lovely, and she made no move to either respond to his groping or draw back. She stood like a posed doll holding the mead-jug as Manwë’s thin mouth curved down in disapproval. Tulkas barked a loose laugh at him.  
‘Disapproval?’ He removed his hand. ‘Fret not. They are no fun any more, o King of Arda, thou hast sucked all the juice from them.’

‘He never said a truer word than that thy brain was muscle.’ Aulë spoke, his face dark.

‘Who?’ Tulkas demanded, but Aulë stared him down, until Tulkas huffed and sank back in his chair, draining the cup. The Elf-woman refilled it.

‘The Fëanorions,’ Oromë said, who had come bringing the tang of the wild woods into the sterile air. Snakeskin moulded to his tall form. Tiny braids of hair threaded with amber and feathers showered to his knees. Of all of them, he did not sit.  
‘They defy thee. They are the only ones who are left.’ A look flashed between Námo and Manwë. Oromë noted it, frowning.

‘And so? What can they do?’ Tulkas asked.

‘Thou art a fool,’ Manwë slammed a hand down on the arm of his throne so that Ingwë, kneeling at his feet, raised his snow-white head. Eönwë, standing behind the throne, saw the startled flash of those cobalt eyes before the beautiful head bowed again.  
Manwë ignored his footstool.  
‘This...interloper took my Silmaril—‘

Varda raised her brows, said in her cold, fluting voice. ‘Thine?’ Her gown rustled with the sound of a thousand crystals as she came up from her chair and paced the hall to stand before him. ‘Thou hast seen? _Canst_ thou still see so far?’ Her words were dulcet, sweet poison.

Once, Manwë had been able to look with ease to the uttermost East from the summit of the Holy Mountain, but for long those far-off lands had been shadowed. And Manwë’s power had faded these Ages. All of the Valar’s had.

‘Two Silmarils burn in the East,’ he snapped. ‘I can feel them. And the other wakes, it answers them.’

‘But who was _he_?’ Yavannah asked from her chair. ‘Who was this power? It seems to me there are greater perils than the two Fëanorions.’

‘He who built the Timeless Halls,’ Varda turned to her. ‘Who else? Did we not find them, beautiful and empty. Yet _someone_ created them.’

‘If so, then he has greater power than any of us; we would be nothing to him. We were. He broke our wards as if they were cobweb.’ Irmo rose. His cloak was the colour of mist over the sea and seemed to flow out of sight, into some other world. His changeful eyes, so full of dream and mystery, sharpened to chips of black glass as they fixed on Manwë. ‘But why now? Why after so long?’

‘What hast thou dreamed?’ Estë asked him.

The winds rose, moaning at the colossal, arched windows. To Eönwë, the sound was like the souls of the dead demanding release from the Halls of Waiting.

‘I dreamed of older worlds,’ Irmo said. ‘Of a universe dying and others reborn, and a power that stands astride them all.’

‘Absurd,’ blustered Tulkas, and Irmo cast him a black look though his prophetic voice was unchanged as he said, ‘I always dream true, brother.’

‘So this power sides with the Fëanorions?’ Varda mused. ‘Why?’ And she turned again to Manwë, a mocking little smile on her mouth, but it was Irmo who answered: ‘Because, Lady, he bears their blood.’

Aulë looked up.  
‘Thou didst dream this?’ he demanded and Irmo inclined his head.  
‘And more,’ he said. ‘That the gates of thy prison were smashed open, Námo, and the souls came forth into Light.’

Námo’s ghoulish face blanched the colour of clay. His eyes too, showed black, but without pupil or iris.  
‘It is, as Tulkas says, absurd.’ But the air whined about him like the carrion-buzz of corpse-flies and the air smelt of forgotten tombs. Varda raised a slender, perfumed hand to her nose.

‘Enough,’ Manwë commanded though his voice sounded thin as the high airs. ‘It is time,’ he told Námo.

‘Time?’

‘To wake the Warrior,’ Manwë said, and his smile showed like a skull’s head. ‘ _And send him forth._ ’

Eönwë raised his head. The plumes on his helm streamed in the mourning winds, and ice gathered at his heart. Ice and regret.

_The Warrior._

OooOooO


	25. ~ The Ragged Edge ~

  
  
  
  


**~ The Ragged Edge ~**

~ The study door was still closed and as Marcus strode toward it, Leon caught his arm.  
‘Wait.’

Marcus halted, and Leon smiled tightly. ‘You might wish to disturb them. I do not. Those two have been connected for so long time is meaningless. I think we would be rather surplus at the moment.’ The smile twisted wryly. ‘Mairon is like and unlike our own father, and Vanimórë probably understands him better than anyone.’

‘You miss him,’ Marcus stated. ‘Sauron.’

‘Mairon,’ Leon snapped back.

‘I see nothing admirable about either of them. Impressive, I grant you, but cold and perilous.’

‘And isn’t Vanimöré?’

‘Vanimöré can be hurt, and he can love. I’m not sure the same applies to any Sauron, in any world.’

‘Perhaps,’ Leon conceded. ‘And that was what I always found admirable.’

In the quiet kitchen, he drew a bottle of Armagnac from a cupboard and poured a measure for each of them.

‘One of your drinks?’ Marcus asked.

Their fingers brushed as Leon offered the glass and they both stood absolutely still for heartbeats.

‘One of ours,’ Leon corrected, his voice throaty. ‘Isn’t it?’

Marcus pulled back first; he raised his glass. ‘Yes.’ Taking a sip, he felt the familiar, mellow bite melt on his tongue.

Leon returned the salute. ‘To a clear head?’ His voice was a little mocking.

Marcus leaned back against the solid table. ‘Now is not the time.’ He gazed into the rich depths of the brandy until Leon’s hand under his chin brought his head up, unwilling. The intensity deepened in his twin’s eyes until it was almost unbearable.  
‘I love looking at you,’ Leon murmured. ‘It is not like looking in a mirror, oddly enough. It’s not self-love. It’s not even love; we are agreed on that at least. It’s something else. Skin smooth as a baby’s. Like _his_ , and like Mairon’s.’ His voice dropped. ‘Did you never wonder, when you were younger why, with our black hair, we never needed to shave?’

‘I wondered, yes.’ Marcus’ heartbeat dinned in his ears. ‘But we both knew there was something about us, some knowledge missing. And then, later, I knew why.’

‘Blood will tell I suppose, even after Ages of the world.’ Her ran the pad of his thumb across Marcus’ mouth. It stung, heated with the desire to kiss...

Marcus took his twin’s wrist and forced his hand away. ‘I _said_ this is not the time. And people who are absorbed in one another to the exclusion of all else are completely useless.’

Leon blazed an unexpected smile. ‘And boring,’ he agreed. ‘So terribly _infra dig_ , my dear. I do get the point. But I think our circumstances are rather unusual, don’t you?’ He whirled away, paced restlessly around the kitchen. Marcus watched him, the straight shoulders, slim hips, long flanks, and burnt up with desire. Leon, as if he sensed it, pivoted and stalked back, purposeful as a hunting panther. He tossed back the drink and snapped the glass down then leaned in, his hands each side of Marcus.  
‘Strange, alcohol hardly affects me now. Or perhaps not so strange.’ His eyes, close, wide, were feverish in their violet blaze. ‘But my gods, _you do._ How could it hurt, just once?’

Sheer _want_ rampaged through Marcus’ blood like fever. His skin was licked as by flame, a flash burn.

OooOooO

~ His father’s seed always tasted like minerals, the burn of fire upon his tongue, a lingering taste: fine cognac, fire, liquid stone.

It was so long ago, and familiar as the memories, the waking nightmares of Angband and Barad-dûr. _Horror twisting until, like a breaking bone, it cracked with an agonising scream into a fury of hate. His father would not help him, not save him from Melkor and no-one else would come to his aid, and so he knew, from that moment, that he could depend on no-one but himself. Yet the blood-bond existed, though he kicked against it like a wild colt and then, as he matured and gained skills, the rage was moulded by time and circumstance into a strange, cold respect. But still and always, the battle; he would not surrender — until, at times, forced beyond the brink, he did, and found that uttermost relief._

He did not seek release or relief, not now. He performed the act like the trained whore he was and did not think; he wiped his mind blank as glass. This was not Sauron in wolf-shape, nor was it orc or Fell-wolf; the disgust was aimed solely at himself and it was unimportant. There were greater things to be concerned with. And so, as he had done many times before, he worked to pleasure his father with lips and throat and tongue, drinking down the seed when it spilled.

He rose when it was done. ‘If there is to be anything more, father, what thou wilt tell me had better be worth it.’ He raised a brow.

Sauron straightened his clothes; his face showed neither satisfaction or triumph; it had returned to marble-calm; it always had, after.  
‘Oh, it is.’ He poured the champagne. (‘Like white mead, a little, do you not think?’) and Vanimórë sipped.

‘Very well,’ he said, when Vanimórë remained stonily silent. ‘And though I am sure you can do something about it, it would be complicated, and so I personally would be inclined to let it play out.’ His fingers tapped against the fluted crystal and Vanimórë cast up his eyes.  
‘All right, there is no need to be cryptic,’ he said impatiently. ‘ _Go on._ ’

‘And yet, you are still prone to impulse. Perhaps I should have you swear to say nothing, do nothing,’ Sauron mused, eyes on his.

‘Do not renege, father. And thou knowest that we both will break any oath if it suits us.’

Sauron’s eyes glinted humour. ‘Well, _of course_. And I will renege if I wish it, and _you_ know _that._ So, then, I will have to rely on your pragmatism. And that is a risk.’

OooOooO

~ ‘How could it hurt?’ Marcus asked levelly. ‘Ask a drunk why one drink would be too much.’ He pushed his glass aside with one hand. ‘Because one is never enough.’

‘No,’ Leon agreed and his faint smile melted into something more dangerous: hunger just this side of insanity.

‘And you —‘ with a scorching uprush of anger. ‘You were raped, in London. It was not so long ago—‘

‘—That was punishment and duty. I accepted it. We’ve both known worse. What do you want me to do, weep on your shoulder? I told you not to pity me!’

‘I don’t. You made your choice to serve him, knowing whom and what he was,’ Marcus barked. ‘I just think that you may be trying to get over it in this way, to prove something.’

Leon threw back his head laughing without humour. ‘I heal fast, I always did, and more so since coming back.’ The laughter ended abruptly. Leon stared at him. ‘You think I’m traumatised? Some stinking orc-bitch with a strap-on? I watched her die. I would have preferred to kill her myself, but was something _awfully_ cathartic in seeing her burn to death.’ He smiled, a dangerous flash. ‘I am not traumatised, Marcus. There is no time for it. I don’t need to wash the taste and touch of her away with you. She was _burned._ Fire to burn clean. And I would not ever _use_ you. At least no more than you would use me,’ he added.

‘All right,’ Marcus said impatiently. ‘But don’t you see? This is a test. Vanimórë and Sauron are testing us to see if we’re of any use at all when we’re together.’

‘A test, is it? And are we going to fail it?’ Slowly, Leon closed the gap between their bodies. ‘But you’re right, my brother, my twin, my soul. Once would not be enough. I want to eat you alive.’

With those words, Marcus snapped, blazing: _Flashpoint_. He surged forward and their bodies touched, all of Leon was hard: flesh, bone, sinew, the ridge of his erect phallus. As was Marcus.

He swore, kissed like a stooping hawk and again it was like a thunderclap in the soul, a terrible rightness of two broken halves coming into oneness. (After how long, how many thousand upon thousands of years?)

When they were not together, he felt the lack of Leon like a ache, an emptiness, but the wrongness of what had been done to them: one soul ripped apart, reborn as human twins in this world, only revealed itself as the horror it was when their bodies touched like this.

And it was not enough; the grind of their loins, the drag of their hands, the frenzied and devouring kisses. It was not enough. Nothing would ever be enough. There was a jagged break through his soul and nothing would ever heal it...and still, _still_...

They were both so close, striving toward it and deep under the drug, Marcus was shocked to realise how easily his resolve could shatter. The vein of cold caution was stretched hair-thin now, but still it tugged at his mind like the pluck of a steely string, warning — and he suddenly envisaged himself as a glutton, eating until he vomited only to eat again, always ravenous, bloated on a greed that would never be sated.

On the reflex of that image which disgusted him, he gathered himself and thrust Leon away. Leon staggered back, flushed and dazzle-eyed as a boy after his first fugitive kiss, and his slow smile was pure challenge.

Then the house seemed to open and shut. Marcus heard something fall with a splintering crash. From deeper in the house, came the sound of breaking. The whole building tremored.

They bolted from the kitchen and, across the hall, the study door flung open; solid and heavy, it crashed back on its hinges. Plaster-dust drifted down.

Vanimórë strode through the door. He looked as if he walked out of another world, far away and long ago, and a wrath of lighting played about him. The air bowed and _bent_ as if it strained against letting something in, something far vaster, so powerful it would blast the world to cinders.

The deep violet of Vanimöré’s eyes spread, swallowed the white. The colour swirled with galaxies, pinwheeling starry arms stretching across Time.

There was a flood of biting cold air, a smell like ice and metal. With a snap! the glass fronted paintings in the hall cracked in their frames.  
  
The human eye could not see what was pressing at the walls of the world, but there was an impression of a terrible brightness, an impossible and titan _Mind_. The lineaments of Vanimöré’s visible form seemed to become somehow denser, and they glowed, not flesh and bone, but a structure written in a language no human could ever read or speak. He was inscribed in fate and fire and the coldness that lived between the stars, superb and awful. An ineffable tone sounded, one note that seemed to shake the Earth and Marcus’ ears rang with it.  
  
Wings swept out immense and magnificent, gemmed by a billion stars. The black hair flooded across every universe: Dark Energy, the quintessence, as the Greeks named it.  
  
_What we can see is such a small fraction of what is..._  
  
The hallway, the house, became misty, almost transparent, as if they were not truly there, just a momentary line drawing, ephemeral, there and gone in the blink of a god’s eye. Vanimöré alone blazed, had presence, and that presence drew reality toward him, like the implacable gravitational pull of a supermassive black hole.  
  
Then Sauron came from the study. On the febrile, trembling air smoke and flame trailed from his robes. He too, was more real than his surroundings, dark and bright at once. He shouted his son’s name, sharp, hard, like a slap.  
  
There was a moment where the world paused, teetered on the brink, then Vanimöré blinked once, and when his eyes opened, they were normal, if that fuming, backlit colour could be called normal.  
  
‘You can do nothing,’ Sauron told him. The words were a warning, and Vanimórë spun to face him.  
  
‘Cannot?’  
  
‘Will not, then. Let it play out. It is so close. And as you have said, everything that can happen, has happened. So let this happen here.’  
  
There was a long silence. Marcus felt Leon at his side, but did not look at him. He held his breath, watching.  
  
‘Perhaps this will teach you to _look_ ,’ Sauron advised calmly. ‘Just like Celebrimbor, you will not. But,’ he shrugged. ‘These worlds, universes, cannot be perfect. Even had you created them with forethought and not out of a passion of fury and grief, they could never be that. They would need to come from a place of perfection, an innocent soul. And none of us are innocent, are we?’ He showed his white teeth in a challenging bite. ‘And think how boring that would be.’  
  
Danger gathered around Vanimórë again and Sauron raised his hand, hitting him hard on the cheek, a stinging blow that left a red mark on the milk-pale skin.  
‘Control yourself! You risk bringing all that you are into this world.’ Then, with an arched brow, he drawled: ‘But do it if you wish; just another piece of guilt for you to torment yourself with.’  
  
Marcus thought for a heartbeat Vanimórë would turn on his father. But then he visibly controlled himself, seemed to cloak the threat. The air settled again. It still smelt of ice, and of burning.  
  
It was rare to see emotion on Vanimöré’s face. Usually his countenance was hard as white enamel, giving nothing away, but now, there was a raw pain in it, a pain that rapidly heated to a raw and glittering rage.  
  
‘Save your anger,’ Sauron advised.  
  
‘Believe me. I _will_. And anger does not begin to touch it.’ Vanimöré looked around at Marcus and Leon.  
‘We have to go. I must walk the perimeter of the village.’ But his voice sounded otherwhere.  
  
Marcus said quickly: ‘We saw Elgalad.’  
  
Vanimórë’s attention fixed on him. ‘Didst thou?’ he asked harshly. There was something brittle about him at that moment, or was it that Marcus was conscious of the sheer willpower involved in allowing so little of himself into this world?  
  
_Most of him is not even here._  
‘He said, to watch Claire.’  
  
‘Claire.’ Vanimórë’s eyes swung to Sauron’s, a moment of connection.  
  
‘Only women can birth children,’ Sauron said as if it should have been obvious. ‘They are the mothers of all nations. In the Ancient World her foremother bore you. She is the link between you and Eru.’  
  
‘What, he seeks to use her as a breeding cow?’ Vanimórë demanded. ‘I swear he will _not_! We will watch her. All of us. For Hell’s sake, she is not even sure she will go And he is what he is. He does not need to create children in that fashion.’  
  
‘He did not need to before,’ Sauron said. ‘Yet he got _you_ in that way. Why? Because he could. Because it was something new. And why did you, all those billions of years alone on the Monument, not create your own “children”?’  
  
‘Because they would not be the same! And their love would be born out of innocence, of knowing nothing else.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘The way Eru’s children were, once.’  
  
‘Until you, his son, turned away. Rebelled. Perhaps,’ Sauron suggested, ‘He wants to start afresh.’  
  
‘Well?’ Vanimórë shot at Marcus. ‘What else did he say?’  
  
‘That he was supposed to get close to her, to gain her trust, but that he couldn’t deceive her. _Has_ he met her?’ Marcus asked. ‘She’s said nothing.’  
  
‘Eru is quite capable of making her forget it, of closing her mouth,’ Vanimöré said. ‘Of making it seem something of little note. I have done so myself countless times, when I do not wish people to think about me or even remember meeting or seeing me. I do it all the time.’  
  
‘Eru told him — Elgalad — that he means Claire no harm, but that she ought to be wary, and on Midsummer Eve many portals will open, to other worlds, other universes.’ He stepped forward. ‘That’s what he’s doing, isn’t it? That’s what we can feel, this rising power.’  
  
‘Yes,’ Vanimórë said slowly. ‘Many doorways, hoping to separate her from the others, I imagine, to confuse us, draw us apart.’ He paused. ‘I think there is only one thing I can do, go out and light the way through from the other side so thou wilt know which of the portals to us.’ His eyes were blank for a moment, then he stirred. ‘Come, Marcus. Unless thou wouldst prefer to remain here for a time?’  
  
‘I’ll come,’ Marcus nodded, and saw Sauron’s taunting smile. He came across, touched a hand lightly to Marcus’ cheek and tilted up his head. The gesture was so like Leon’s that Marcus’ pulse rushed into a gallop.  
‘Hmm, so you _almost_ managed to resist him. Not quite. Learn to control your lusts, young one. And you too,’ he added to Leon. ‘It will serve you well. Else what are you but a rutting orc?’  
  
The fine armagnac backed up in his throat. Marcus remembered the orcs in rut from his old life; their stink, their bristled hairiness, like a boar in a mud wallow.  
  
‘Enough,’ Vanimórë snapped. ‘Come.’ He strode to the door. ‘I will see the both of thee later.’  
  
‘Be sure of it,’ Sauron responded. ‘And keep a rein on your temper. You can do it. Remember the game we played, you and I, when I took on Pallando’s form. Remember Moria. I had to be seen to die. It was an interesting time, was it not?’ *  
  
‘Oh, I remember,’ Vanimöré assured him as he opened the door. ‘A game yes, between the two of us, and a necessity. They would never have understood why I let thee live. They would not have trusted me again. Perhaps they should not have.’  
  
‘There is nothing more pointless and deeply unattractive than handwringing guilt,’ Sauron told him acidly. ‘Let this play to its end.’  
  
Vanimórë nodded curtly and left the house.  
Marcus, with one long look at Leon, like the aching stretch of a heart, followed. Vanimöré set a fast pace that lead up into the hills above the Lodge. When they reached the top, close to the track Marcus and Leon had used, he stopped, raised his head and breathed in. There was a scent still lingering: white blossom in warm rain, distilling its fragrance into the night. Vanimórë said nothing, but Marcus felt the quiver that ran through him as if an arrow had struck his heart. The unforced reaction made Vanimöré seem human, and Marcus was relieved, then ashamed of his relief, but what he had glimpsed in the Lodge bore no relation to anything human, and it had terrified him. He had a sudden vision of Vanimórë _becoming_ in this world and then the Earth was gone and the impossible energy blasted through the galaxies, throughout the universe, and all ceased to exist. _A mote in the eye of a god. He blinked and it was gone_.  
  
Was that what Eru had done in the Ancient world, he wondered, something as simple as _becoming_ his true self?  
  
Then Vanimöré shook his head like a fractious horse. Marcus, through a sudden chill, a gasping, unrooted fear of the unknown, said, ‘He will help, if he can. He told us.’  
  
‘Did he now?’ The smile Vanimórë turned on him was pure ice. ‘He cozens. Do not trust him.’  
  
Marcus thought of the angelic purity of Elgalad’s face, the lucent and unfathomable eyes. ‘Perhaps, but Leon said that he was Eru’s victim, too.’  
  
Vanimöré exhaled. The air around him quivered. His face closed down, a mask.  
‘And so he never had any choice at all? That makes things no better, not one whit.’  
  
‘Vanimöré,’ Marcus said. ‘What happened just now?’ Because it was not this, not Elgalad, that had so shaken Vanimöré, almost made him lose control of his present form and allowed the Totality into the world.  
  
‘What. Happened.’ Vanimórë repeated, two words chipped as though from granite. ‘Thou wilt see that for thyself in a few days.’  
  
‘I thought...’  
  
‘I know.’  
  
‘Was it Eru?’  
  
‘No. And it was too close, yes.’ And, as to himself: ‘I should not even be here.’  
  
The hills echoed with a drumroll of thunder, and far away, across the sea, on the borders of another realm, lightning answered it, forking from sky to sea.  
  
Vanimórë turned away, and there, a half a mile away or less, a beam of pale light erupted into the sky. He hissed.  
  
‘You can’t meet him,’ Marcus said, horrified by the thought, still shaken to the bone by what he had seen.  
  
‘We can meet, but not in violence,’ Vanimórë returned absently, his gaze fixed on that light. ‘And not here, not now. So do not worry; I have no intention of seeking him out. And yes, I hate him,’ his voice lowered. ‘But it is a cold hate. I hate the Valar with a _passion_ , Marcus, Manwë and Námo at least. They are gods, but have the minds of petty kings, ruling over a few poor acres of land, yet thinking themselves emperors. They never had any true vision. Their minds are cunning but not clever, sly, like a weasel in the grass. The dross of Eru’s mind, or perhaps his creator’s and yet, because Eru could only create gods, they could be nothing less. They were an error. The others followed them through momentary resentment or weakness or ambition, and found themselves trapped. But now—‘ He stopped abruptly as the gloaming lit to sun-brightness and Coldagnir descended from the sky like a fireball. He shook the flames from his hair as he came toward them. Spot fires lit the heather and smoked before fading. A bitter smoke went up.  
‘What happened?’ he demanded.  
  
‘Nothing, yet,’ Vanimórë replied calmly, as Coldagnir put up his brows in obvious disbelief. ‘Nothing, and something that happened long ago. Come. I know where Eru is and what he is doing, or part of it at least, and so we _all_ need to talk.’  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

~ The bright-blazing burn that had touched his lips spread. He felt it in his extremities, running under his skin, setting the nerves alight. It was on his tongue, stirring it toward speech in a mouth that had been mute for uncounted years.

_The Warrior._

The Warrior. Asleep for Ages, if what he did could be called sleep. He, too, had been changed, moulded, his mind filled with hatred and shadow and lies.

Lies. There was the word. It surfaced liked mouldering bones floating up from the silt at the bottom of a flooded grave, and it stank.

Lies.

Chains of the mind.

Manwë and Námo hastened down the hallways of Ilmarin until they came to what appeared to be an enormous well-shaft delving down to the the roots of Taniquetil.

The two Valar descended; Eönwë spread his wings and followed them obediently, tugged by those invisible chains. It was his duty to go everywhere with Manwë, who was afraid, even here. When the Valar began their assault on Utumno, and later, Angband, he had held back, sending Eönwë and his legions in, and too, he held those Valar back eager to lead the vanguard.

All the Valar had known pain and fear in the Wars of the Shaping, and ever since, Manwë had dwelt in terror of it, Power or no. Námo only felt secure in his Halls, where his own silent Maia slaves thronged about him and haunted the labyrinthine passageways.

Eönwë remembered Utumno unroofed, and what had been found there. The memory, dulled for so long, now unfurled like a bloody, black flower in his mind. The chambers beneath Ilmarin were not so dark, but they, too, were stark with a wrongness that lay like rot on the soul.  
He remembered the reeking pits of the Underworld, the _quendi_ twisted into monstrosities by Melkor and Mairon, the dark fire of the _Valarauker_ , the enslaved Maia, shapes of fear and malice — and the others, a bare score of them, half-demon, half-quendi, burned white by black sorcery, beautiful and lethal. Manwë had declared them anathema, aberrations that could not exist, and commanded them slain. And so they were, after a long and brutal battle. **

The pits of Taniquetil were empty now. Once, they had rang to the sound of defiant and agonised screams, and those echoes still whispered in the stones.

The chamber was locked by spells spoken in Ages past by Manwë and Námo in concert and it contained only one thing: the Warrior stood behind a wall as clear as glass and strong as the _tilkal_ that had shaped Angainor.

A pallid and sourceless light winked from gilded pauldrons, off mail that flowed as perfectly as the scales of a tiny fish, and the overlapping _lame_. The Warrior’s eyes were closed under his helm. Did he dream, Eönwë wondered? He had been here, then; he had witnessed when the power came down, locking the Warrior into magical slumber.

Perilous he looked, even held under enchantment, and posed here like a china doll the owner is afraid to spoil but enjoys looking at. And look they did, Manwë and Námo, gloating, proud of their achievement, the secret that would be kept for thousands of years. That would now be unleashed upon the unknown violet-eyed god, and the son and grandson of Fëanor.

Then, the Warrior’s eyes opened, and Námo’s chuckle was like the rustle of dead leaves — or the click of those ancient bones in their long-forgotten grave.

OooOooO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Refers to events in Dark God:
> 
> Chapters 24: Mind Mazes 
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/84857/chapters/137698
> 
> through Chapter 27. 
> 
> ** In this (and most) AU’s Edenel and the _Ithiledhil_ , Melkor’s White Slayers were killed when Utumno was unroofed. In this ‘verse, Edenel died but Culina, bearing his child, escaped. She was thought dead.


	26. ~ A Time of Decision ~

  
  
  
  


**~ A Time of Decision ~**

  
  
  
  
~ There was a light on at the Hall, low down in the drawing-room. A white cat, wraithlike in the strange pallor of the ebbing night, streaked across the lawn and vanished into the bushes.  
  
Luc and Claire had been asleep, as evidenced by their state of _déshabillé_ , but now were awake with the Fëanorions and Edenel. All of them nursed glasses of whiskey.  
  
Vanimöré forced himself to smile at them as he entered, saying, ‘I am sorry about the disturbance. My temper got the better of me.’  
  
‘Thou didst see him, then,’ Maglor stated, and Vanimórë felt the distrust under the question. It was well-merited. He would have been suspicious himself were their situations reversed.  
‘Hence my reaction,’ he agreed.  
  
‘It was a dramatic reaction,’ Tindómion said levelly, silver eyes intent, a little narrowed.  
  
‘Even after so long, he has that effect on me.’ He was lying as well as he ever had, unblinking, calm, a little self-mocking. And his mind thundered with the knowledge Sauron had imparted to him. He knew his rage must show, as must the pain, but that could be attributed to meeting his father.  
  
His was the blame, all of it, and yet it was true that every possibility could happen and did—  
  
 _Vanimórë_!  
  
His eyes moved to Edenel. _Should I tell him? Coldagnir?_ Their fury would be no less violent than his own and yet if they knew, they could prepare. _But how could anyone prepare for this?_  
  
Following the others’ example, Vanimöré poured himself and Marcus a drink, and went to stand before the unlit fireplace. He told them that Marcus and Leon had met Elgalad, and what he had said about Claire. Coldagnir and Edenel turned their lovely heads to look from Marcus back to Vanimórë; eyes hard, questing.  
  
‘What would Eru want with her?’ Maglor asked, the harmonics of his voice pitched low and dangerous. The glasses on the sideboard answered with a shivering hum.  
  
‘My father,’ Vanimöré replied with a grimace of distaste. ‘Pointed out that women sire nations.’  
  
Claire’s eyes, that had been moving from one to the other, sharpened with a look that slammed into them with a shock of revulsion and anger. She had been raised to make her own choices and, although there were still places in this world where women were valued only as brood mares, it was not something any right-thinking person could accept. Vanimöré had ruled such lands; Sud Sicanna had been only the worse example of many and come only slowly toward a change in attitude.  
  
‘ _What_?’ Luc exclaimed.  
  
Their voices, raised in protest and anger suddenly stilled as Claire spoke through them. Her grey eyes were blurred, distant, looking far away from this room and the people in it.  
‘I know why he would want me. The dream. The goddess in that old world. She bore him a child in her castle by the sea on a night of storm.’ The lamp in the room flickered. ‘But I’m not her.’ Her gaze cleared, as did her tone. ‘It’s _insane_. I won’t be used like that.’  
  
‘You won’t be,’ Marcus said strongly. He turned to Vanimórë. ‘We can’t let him _do_ this!’  
  
Claire pushed her hands into her hair and half-laughed, jagged and short. ‘It’s like something out of a novel or some terrible movie. I can’t even _believe_ it involves me. And it doesn’t really. How can it? Even if that goddesses blood is within me, I’m not her. I’m not a goddess.’  
  
‘Yet Mortals have been raised to godhood before now,’ Vanimórë murmured. ‘Túrin, Tuor, my _Khadakhir_.’  
  
Her eyes widened on him. ‘Is that what he means to do?’  
  
‘I do not know, but if he means to kidnap thee and take thee...somewhere, to the Outside, then it is not something a Mortal would survive, and so it seems likely.’  
  
‘I won’t be forced,’ she enunciated. ‘Look...’ She flung out her hands. ‘This is all I know. My life. Vanya told me and Luc, after the Clouds burned, not everything but enough, and I’ve barely thought about anything else. But I need _time._ ’  
  
‘I know,’ Vanimórë said. ‘And time is something we do not have. Tomorrow the village will be evacuated, save for us. My father and Eru will find a way to remain, to go unremarked. And then comes Midsummer Eve. There is never enough time, Claire. Even in eternity. The moment of choice comes only once. Perhaps at the time of choosing, perhaps long before but unrecognised until that that time comes. ‘  
‘I can get thee safe away from here.’ His voice gentled still more. Just for her. She stared at him, her brows crooked. ‘But Eru could still find thee. Anywhere.’  
  
Claire sat down, staring ahead of her. She nodded once.  
  
‘So, Eru will open Portals,’ Vanimórë continued. ‘There will be many of them, leading to different times, realities.’  
  
‘We knew this would happen,’ Edenel said.  
  
Vanimöré agreed. ‘There is also,’ he glanced at the Fëanorions. ‘the creature in the Blackwater. There will be other things: a storm, I suspect. Power. Confusion. And only _one_ Portal leads to the Valinor of this world.’  
  
‘And so how will we know which one?’ Maglor asked intently. He had mentally dismissed the monster; he had seen them before, fought and killed them before. His eye was fixed, like a master archer’s, on the prize: The Silmaril, Valinor. His father, his brothers. Kin.  
  
‘It was going to be easy enough before Eru chose to involve himself,’ Vanimórë returned dryly. ‘Now, I will go there, and light the way. The light that will guide thee is _Fos Almir._ If thou wouldst pass through it, thou wilt ascend. I told thee,’ he looked at Tindómion. ‘I will not do it in this world. It is the Fire of Creation. The power is too great. I will call it at the doorway of the Portal, on the other side and thou wilt see it.’  
  
There was a dead silence in the room.  
  
Edenel broke it: “Thou hast passed through it before, in the old universe. And it was magnificent. Thou wert meant to be gods.’ His coldly beautiful face was lit from within like illuminated marble. ‘I was there. I passed through it, also. It was like reclaiming a stolen birthright.’  
  
Maglor and Tindómion exchanged a long look, they turned back to Edenel, and Tindómion asked: ‘Will it incapacitate us?’ he asked practically, a warrior to the core. Maglor’s lips curved slightly in approval.  
  
‘Not in the slightest,’ Edenel replied, with a smile. ‘Rather the reverse.’ His glittering white eyes burned with a far, cold fire. The fire of the old universe, the fire that had burned up in the red-lit glare of Utumno and never died.  
  
‘Then that is all I wanted to know.’ Tindómion rose, inclined his head at Vanimórë. ‘Yes.’  
  
‘Yes,’ Maglor assented crisply.

‘Good,’ Vanimórë smiled, and he looked then at Luc whose expression was serious. After a moment, he nodded. ‘I have already chosen to go, and so yes, why not?’ His white teeth glinted briefly.  
  
Marcus moved a little toward Claire and began to say: ‘Couldn’t Vanya—‘ when Claire came to her feet. Her hands cupped her elbows and her face was taut.  
‘Could I ever come back?’ she asked.  
  
‘Not from Valinor,’ Vanimórë said quietly. ‘From the Timeless Halls, yes, one can go anywhere. But, after, it would not be the same.’  
  
She touched her fingers to her lips where Vanimöré’s blood had dashed across them. ‘Not the same, no. And _I’m_ not the same anyhow. Not since that night.’ Her eyes flashed to Marcus.  
  
‘I am sorry for it,‘ Vanimöré said simply.  
  
A smile flickered and died. ‘That wasn’t your fault. What...what’s it _like_? To be given immortality and then made a god?’  
  
‘Túrin and the _Khadakhir,_ in the old world,’ Vanimórë said. ‘They accepted my blood and were immortal first, and for a long time, and then in Valinor, when they passed through the Flame, they ascended to godhood with the Elves.’ He looked inward, into the past, heard his voice come deeper with memory. ‘As Edenel said, it was as if they reclaimed their birthright. But they wanted it.’ _And they are gone._ He could not take her to meet them. They were gone.  
  
Marcus shifted. ‘ _I_ want it, Claire,’ he said intensely. ‘But I can’t say it doesn’t frighten me.’ And Luc offered: ‘Me too. Of course. We’d have to be crazy not to be a little frightened.’  
  
Her hand went out to touch Marcus. ‘You were never truly human, and you neither,’ to Luc.  
  
‘I was,’ Marcus said firmly. ‘So was Leon. It’s been thousands of years since we died and were reborn twins as part of our punishment. I remember my other life now, but I was born of Mortal parents. Leon and I were no different from you, with the blood of a goddess in your veins. And Luc.’  
  
She looked at him intently. ‘But Luc is almost estranged from his family, and Leon has nothing else, and neither do you,’ she said acutely.  
  
‘I can’t argue with that,’ Marcus conceded.  
  
Edenel watched her, eyes half-lidded. ‘Thou hast her face,’ he said, with an old pain. ‘Culina’s.’  
  
Claire turned toward him. She worried at her lip.  
  
‘No-one will ever try and persuade thee,’ Maglor said. ‘I have said this before, and I mean it. And the hardest choices are those we make alone. I know thee from another world, and would like thee to come, not be left here vulnerable to Eru. But that is just my own opinion.’ He looked to Marcus. ‘Thou wert going to say, could Vanya not protect her, if she decided to stay?’  
  
‘She said she would watch over Ellie,’ Marcus replied. ‘And where _is_ Vanya, anyhow?’  
  
‘About her own business,’ Vanimórë said. ‘Her concerns now are these worlds, not what lies beyond. And yes, she could protect thee, Claire. But one thing I know: if I sought someone out, I would never rest until I had them. I would have all the time — quite literally — in the world, as Eru does, and thou couldst be lured away in a moment, because Vanya would have to chain thee to her side to keep thee safe every day and night, and she will not do that.’ He saw Marcus nod in agreement. ‘Nor can I imagine thou wouldst want it.’ Her head shook emphatically in agreement.  
‘Fortunately I am _not_ Eru and I would not pursue someone down the Ages, across the universes, although at times it has been a temptation to pursue _him_ , I admit. But if he can open the portals, and he _can_ , all it would need is a moment of inattention from thee. It seems a poor way to live; no life at all, and like to drive one mad.’ And, although he did not say it, even were she to escape him all her life and die and old woman with a rich life behind her, that would not be the end. There are few things more vulnerable than a soul newly passed from the physical.  
  
‘My god,’ Claire said fervently. ‘Yes, that would be like having an immortal stalker.’ She shuddered. Vanimórë knew the feeling, trapped, trapped, unable to escape a power greater than oneself, that penetrated one’s dreams as easily as one’s body, nothing left inviolate.  
  
Then she seemed to throw of the shiver and went perfectly still, her eyes on nothing.  
‘But my family... _Harrison._ ’ She swallowed. ‘Would he hurt them, hold them hostage, to get to me?’ As the silence lengthened, she answered the question herself. ‘He would, wouldn’t he? He destroyed an entire universe.’ Her eyes slammed shut. ‘I’ve seen it, dreamed it. A great and terrible light. And such _pain_.’  
  
‘I am afraid he would, yes,’ Vanimórë told her regretfully. The pain. He remembered it too. _How couldst thou hurt me so much, turn from all I gave thee, all my love_? And that last look across a ruined world, a battlefield of ideals that had become passionate hatred. That little, ironic, self-mocking lift of the mouth as he raised his hand to call down annihilation.  
  
‘Then there’s no choice is there?’ Claire lifted her head. The lamp flickered again, and her hair ran with rosy-gold fire. ‘I have to come. Perhaps I made the choice when Vanya asked me if I wanted to forget, and I said no.’ Luc nodded at that.  
  
Maglor and Tindómion moved across to her. ‘We will be with thee, Claire,’ Maglor said and Tindómion smiled that brilliant, blazing Fëanorion smile and inclined his head.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

~ Edenel had not been fooled, not for a moment, neither had Coldagnir. They followed him from the room when he left and he was forced to face their interrogative stares.

‘It was not Sauron, was it?’ Edenel challenged. ‘Thou hast known him for too long. I have seen thee with him. It was not he that evoked that reaction, but something that he said. We all felt it; thou didst almost _become_ on this world.’

Vanimöré looked from him to Coldagnir and said, flat as hammered iron: ‘I cannot tell thee anything. I am sorry, but it is too late and too close.’ _And too terrible. How can one ever prepare for this_? ‘Only I say to thee, be ready to act on my word and on thine own instincts. And let the Fëanorions deal with what lies in the Blackwater.’

Neither of them liked it.

‘Why?’ Coldagnir demanded.

‘Because it is their _right_ ,’ Vanimöré flashed. ‘They have met monsters before. And on Midsummer Eve I ask thee to obey me as thou wouldst a General. Wilt thou?’ _Wilt thou trust me so far_?

Uncertain still, yet they acquiesced. To Edenel, he said, ‘I know it is the time of the Heat, and I know also that thou art no slave to it. It will be especially important this time to defer it.’

Despite his colouring, Edenel looked very Fëanorion as he put up his brows. ‘We have deferred it before. And even in the _Heat_ we would not take anyone indiscriminately.’ His lip curled. ‘No. We always know exactly who we want. I will wait. I have waited. I have fought in battles during the _Heat_ before; it is a matter of of channeling that need into something else, that is all.’

Vanimöré smiled faintly. Edenel had been mostly celibate in this world, as had Coldagnir, and he himself. Traditionally, Edenel went away alone for two or three days, returning when the hunger of the _Heat_ had died away. At times, he would approach Coldagnir but he was conscious, he said of not wanting to assume or presume. (At which Coldagnir has smiled unbelievingly) Yet he — and all of them — needed the release and relief of the _Anguish_ , that totality of pain and pleasure that had originated in the agonies of the _Ithiledhil’s_ changed souls. Shadows of Utumno.

Edenel never asked Vanimöré. He knew, as did Coldagnir that the ending of the old universe, the betrayal after, had set ice in Vanimöré’s heart. Sauron might not care for that, though he most certainly knew it, but they did. He existed in a place of cold, gone far beyond desire. Sometimes he felt it, warming the frost, (Marcus had sparked it, that day beside the Blackwater; Maglor always could) but crushed it underfoot. He would not use anyone.

‘The _Heat_ is hardly appropriate here,’ Edenel had said, years ago.

That was part of it, but not all. Just as they could not walk this world save under glamour, so they controlled themselves in a myriad of ways: mind, body and soul. And they grieved at the necessity and mourned for what was gone. Since they could not be themselves, they were not; they lived in a state of waiting, and Edenel was correct in saying that the _Heat_ was not something of this time, this world, nor something anyone born of it would comprehend without knowing the history that had birthed both it and the _Anguish._

OooOooO

~ Vanimöré neither needed nor sought sleep as the others slowly made their way to their rooms for what remained of the night. Events were moving swiftly now. In restless fury, he walked up to the black lake, its surface glimmering silver, and the waters uneasy. The monster stirred, sending out its warning to _Keep away_!

Bowing his head hard into his hands, Vanimöré sought out his sister’s mind, and to her alone divulged the revelation that weighed like acid in his gut. Red-black rage flashed across their connection from him to her, earthing itself in the steady, ancient mystery of her soul. The lake trembled in its deep, cold bed as though the monster in the depths roused. Vanimöré’s whole body ached with the need to part those waters, to deal with what lay there — and then what? _What_? With a snarl, he clenched his hands into his hair.

 _Despicable,_ Vanya said. _And yet, Sauron is right that to change it now is pointless. It has happened; it will happen somewhere else if thou wouldst change events here. To make something within this world _not occur _thou wouldst have to destroy everything, collapse the entire timeline.___

___As Eru did,_ he agreed. _And yet did not, since the souls travelled on into another new universe._ No, Eru had not been willing to completely unmake the souls he had loved...Or he had decided the punishment he had in store for them was more satisfying than unmaking._ _

___Unless that is thy desire and plan, I cannot see what good it would do to tell anyone now,_ Vanya responded. _It is far too close. Neither can they change anything. Let things unfold as they will.__ _

__She was wiser than he, cooler-headed and rarely subject to impulse. He accepted her advice although he knew he had already decided.  
 _Should I then, become all_? he asked bitterly. _Shed everything and become mind alone_?  
  
 _To do what_? she countered shrewdly. _To design everything, pull every string, set every stitch? Is that what thou doth want, that absolute control, that complete awareness? To update the code of the universe as and when_?  
  
He had to smile at her terminology.  
 _No, my dear, I value freedom too much._  
  
 _Then let creation be free. But I do agree that those who abuse their divine powers must be punished._ And old blood surfaced in her voice, blood that had stained alters to the Mother of the Earth in ancient times.  
  
 _They shall be,_ he vowed, and just for a moment, the black-heat of fury became an executioner’s ice in his soul.  
Then, he spoke what he had guessed all along: _Thou didst know this already._  
  
 _I am what I am,_ she replied calmly. _Yes, I knew._  
  
  
  
  
  
_ _

OooOooO

~ The van turned into the Hall’s drive early the next morning, when the household were already long awake. Nerves strung taut, they grouped at the doorway, wary, antagonistic. But Vanimórë said calmly: ‘Just a delivery I have been expecting,’ and walked out to meet the van.

The driver and her assistant jumped from the van and opened the rear, lowering the contents to the floor: two cardboard boxes, rectangular and perhaps ten feet in length, were manoeuvred onto a trolley and wheeled toward the door. The driver, in black overalls, hair cut in a _gamine_ cap of darkness, looked more soldier than van-driver. Which she was, or had been before she joined Asterion and continued to be, albeit her position bore a different name. Vanimórë noted that she almost saluted then, recollecting herself announced crisply: ‘Delivery for Mr. Steele.’

‘Thank you.’ He flicked her an imperceptible wink of collusion and saw the faint stir of an answering smile on her firm mouth before her training stilled it. ‘I will take them from here.’

The boxes were carried to the dining room and Vanimórë took a moment to have a brief word with his employees. When he returned, the others were grouped around the boxes.

‘The delivery is not, in fact, for me,’ he said, and to Maglor and Tindómion. ‘For the both of thee.’

The cardboard was thick; Edenel drew out his daggers and handed one each to the Fëanorions; they cut it like paper, revealing two long shapes shrouded in fine white silk. Pulling it away, Maglor took a step back. His eyes rose to Vanimórë’s in shock. Tindómion made an odd gasp deep in his throat.

‘I remember,’ Vanimöré told them simply.

Armour. The peerless Fëanorion armour both had worn into battle, with crimson plumes over the high helms, the incised pauldrons, the fish-scale mail overlapped by bands of flexible steel, and every link, every piece, even the brow of the helm, on which the circlet of Noldorin nobility was riveted, inscribed with the eight-pointed Fëanorion star.

Almost with reverence, they lifted the pieces out, set the plumed helms down. Then came the swords; there was nothing ornamental about those despite their beauty, nor the stabbing dirks; they were clearly meant to be used. Both were set with pigeon’s blood rubies larger than coins, rare and priceless stones. The shields were stamped with their insignias: Maglor’s fiery harp and by Tindómion’s, the latter’s with the Silmarils set blazing in the strings.

‘My artisans are not the equal of Fëanor or Celebrimbor,’ Vanimórë said, aching. ‘But they are skilled and these will serve thee.’

He saw how it brought back the past to them in a visceral way that banished forever the artifice of their long, wandering and concealed lives. In a world hostile to those who did not fit in, they had despised the necessity of concealment and had essayed it nonetheless, donning identity after identity to hide their true selves. It was that or throw themselves on the Valar’s cruel judgement — or humankind’s, less powerful but no less cruel and far more curious.

Vanimöré automatically looked through glamour to the truth, but there was no glamour woven around the Feänorions now; it slid away like discarded snakeskin and they burned. Warriors, bards, Princes of the Blood.

No-one should ever have to be anything but their true selves.

He left them with Edenel and Coldagnir acting as their squires. When they emerged from the room, the air quivered around them; they shone like new-risen stars. Vanimöré felt the shock of their appearance run from head to heels in a long, ice-fire shiver of loss and lust and love, painful as naked flame on the skin. As one he and Coldagnir and Edenel bowed to them.

They each raised a gauntleted hand, and slowly opened it. The Silmarils took fire, diamond-silver, unearthly in their brilliance, blood calling to blood. The light burned like molten mercury in their eyes.  
In that moment, they reclaimed their old lives and left this world behind.

OooOooO


	27. ~ The Wine of Deception is Sweet ~

  
  


**~ The Wine of Deception is Sweet ~**

~ The peace of the highlands was broken abruptly early the next morning. Black helicopters thundered over the village and into the hills. S.B.S. boats skimmed the loch leaving churned trails of white froth in their wakes, and Army vehicles growled down the narrow roads. Soldiers piled out of them, playing their emergency evacuation drill to the hilt. For all most of them knew, it was authentic.

No-one came near the Hall. Above the village, in the mountains, among the healthier and rock, the S.A.S set up a cordon and, as ordered, beyond that, the field operatives of Asterion watched. Waiting in the deep waters of the Inner Sound, the ominous shape of the H.M.S. Warspite lay idle.

Martha had half-expected something to happen and so was not surprised. When the low-flying helicopter woke her from a night of sketchy sleep she bounded across to the window and took in the scene with a certain amount of appreciation, but was none the wiser until the soldiers entered the inn and announced an evacuation. She nodded to herself. That was elegant and all Steele, she would bet.

The owners and their son, the cook, remonstrated and questioned, both angry and nervous as well they might be if the story were in any way true. Martha snapped out her I.D. and held it up.

The soldier was tough, experienced and knew his job. Martha blasted a megawatt of confidence into his tanned face and said under her breath: ‘Why do you think I’m here?’ Raising her brows as she spoke. With the air of having known all about everything before he ever did, she added: ‘Call Charlie Audley if you want to waste time, or check with Lucien Steele at Duirinish Hall. I’m an observer.’

She held her breath as he apparently considered, then nodded briskly and turned away. ‘We’re clear here.’

Martha exhaled silently and walked calmly upstairs. From her bedroom window she watched as the villagers were conducted into their transports. They had been given enough time to pack clothes, for they carried cases that were handed up to them. Some of the children were hopping about looking excited at all the activity. The adults were more serious. When they were gone, the village was eerily, unnaturally empty.

Martha expected that they would run a check on her and had no intention of being here when they returned. Going down to the kitchen she raided the fridge and cupboards to make sandwiches, grabbed bottled water and fruit, and filled her backpack. Then she left the inn.

She walked past empty houses, eyeless windows staring at the loch, and turned down the lane that lead toward Duirinish Hall. The sheltering wall and trees cast a shade over the quiet little road. It was, she thought, _too_ quiet; even her soft footfalls sounded jarring. She had been on high-alert since seeing the shining figure on the hill and was half-considering simply marching up to the Hall and talking to Steele. At least he would know what was going on.

But, when the car’s engine sounded, coming from the Hall’s driveway, she instinctively looked for somewhere to hide. There was a house behind high laurel hedges to her right; no car parked on its short drive. She trotted up it and backed behind the hedge as the engine sound drew closer and passed.

The vehicle was Steele’s Bentley, but he was not driving it. Martha glimpsed a woman’s blonde head as the car purred past and frowned to herself. There was no army escort, but of course, there wouldn’t be.

Straightening, she looked around. The house, overlooking a lovely green garden, was tall, thick walled. Martha’s eyes flashed from window to window, but there was no sign of occupancy. She bit her lip thoughtfully, considering. While the weather was mild enough to sleep outside, she would prefer a base to stay in overnight, somewhere where she could shower and use a bathroom and possibly find food. It was highly unlikely that the people staying here had left any doors unlocked, but there was no harm in trying.

The front door was indeed locked, so she moved cautiously around the side of the house, peeping in windows and seeing no-one. The back door, too was locked, but as she circled the house, she saw a side-entrance. The handle was old, a little loose and rattled but then turned. She pushed it open carefully.

Beyond was a utility room; she could hear the hum of a freezer. There was also a sink, a washer and tumble dryer, a few boxes neatly stacked, tools hanging from brackets on the wall, a stepladder, firewood. Across from was her another door. It was half-glassed, and she could see the room beyond it: a long, old-fashioned kitchen, clean and deserted. That door was locked.

She slid the tactical pen from her breast pocket and tapped the glass breaker tip against the glass, debating whether she needed to break-and-enter now, or wait until she had no other choice.

A hollow _thud_ caused her to jump and turn — and see nothing. It sounded as if someone were kicking a wooden door, and very close. She tilted her head, trying to focus on the direction, slipped the pen back, and automatically reached for her gun.

The sound came again and again, rhythmic, steady blows. She looked down at her feet, wondering, because it seemed to come from under the floor.

_Thud. Thump. Thud._

Martha started casting in circles, curious. Here it was fainter, and here...She stopped, staring at the boxes.  
_Here._

She hesitated then shrugged. ‘Hello?’ Then a little louder: ‘Hello?’

The sound stopped and a muffled voice replied, ‘Here! The cellar!’

The cellar? ‘My god,’ Martha exclaimed, and tested the boxes. They seemed to be heavy, as if weighed by bricks or breeze blocks. There was no way she could lift them so she leaned back against them and started to push. She was strong, but they remained stubbornly motionless.

She put her hands on her hips and glanced around the room, fixing on the stepladder. Taking it to the boxes she climbed up and flipped open the lid. As she suspected, it was filled a mixture of builders rubble. Throwing caution to the winds, but with her senses listening and her gun close to hand, she began heaving it out. When the box was empty, she started on the next, until she judged it light enough to push, and sitting back, she braced her feet against it and shoved. The box slid across the floor.

There was a trapdoor below. She had been devoutly hoping it was not locked, but luck was clearly not on her side today. However, the lock looked old.

‘Wait a minute,’ she said, and went to the shelves, choosing a long crowbar. Inserting it in the U of the lock she prised, straining.

Perhaps luck was on her side, after all. As she heaved, her jaw set, flakes of rust spat, and with a crack, the lock fell open. She put the crowbar aside she pulled up the trapdoor.

A lovely, faint scent threaded through the dank stone-and-earth smell of the underground room: flowers, warm spring rain. A man’s head appeared and she sat back abruptly on her heels as he rose from the cellar: an angel-head of soft silver-bright curls, and eyes as clear as dew fall. He pulled himself up into the room, standing tall and slim, impossibly beautiful, with an innocence like a first childhood kiss.

And Martha knew who he was. She had seen his photograph. The deceased Samael Bennett, whom Lucien Steele had killed in Rochford Manor, and one of the two bodies taken out of the London morgue.

It is one thing to believe in paranormal phenomenon, even to feel it on the skin, like a whisper in the dark, quite another to see someone one _knows_ to be dead. She jerked backward in an involuntary movement.

He smiled, and reached down a hand.

‘Thank you. I did not expect you.’

_And I never expected you,_ she thought, trying to marshal herself and all her wits.  
‘Who did you expect?’ It came out dry, half a croak.

‘Oh, no-one at all.’ His grip was startlingly strong as he drew her up. Her skin prickled and she breathed control into lungs that felt stretched and cold, pushing up into her throat.  
She leaned to pick up her backpack, keeping half her attention on him, and her necklace tumbled loose from the neck of her vest. She caught the chain and it revolved, winking even in the dim light of the room.

The young man made an odd little exclamation. His hand went out as if to catch the pendant, then drew back.  
‘You know him,’ he stated.

‘Who?’ she parried.

His mouth moved into something that was not quite a smile; it was too old on that lovely face, too unhappy, too altogether strange.  
‘Lucien Steele. Or that is the name he uses here.’

Like Steele, he had an accent that she could not place.  
‘I work for MI6,’ she said carefully.

‘I know,’ he responded calmly. ‘For a department he funds, through diplomatic channels. He calls it the DDE. And you are quite right, Martha Painswick. I was dead.’

She felt her heart lurch into a gallop, heard it pound in her ears. Through the the lightheaded swirl in her head, she said with a n attempt at flippancy:  
‘Really? Then how are you here?’ She let the pendant fall against her chest, moved her hand slowly toward her gun. His eyes flicked down and then his voice changed, became more alien, a little deeper, his accent more pronounced.  
‘Thou hast nothing to fear from me, Martha,’ he said. ‘I have known Lucien Steele for a very long time in a place far from here. and long gone. He would not have gifted thee with something bearing the sword-palm insignia did he not value thee. And he surely knows thy gifts.’ He took a half-step closer, his eyes on hers. They shimmered, so clear; it was like looking into a lake that had no bottom. Martha had a feeling of sudden falling, as if she could tumble into those depths forever.

And then she saw him. The short hair poured into lengths of purest silver, drawn back over his ears in thick braids. A circlet bound his brow, twining vines and leaves that came to a green-gemmed point between fine brows. He wore a tunic of deep green embroidered with silver and soft, knee high boots over dark-dyed leggings.

She saw him...and then the vision faded back to the young man who had climbed from the cellar.

And Martha thought: _He’s like Steele._

It fascinated and infuriated her that although she had spent time with Lucien Steele, she had to mentally work to keep his image in her mind. But there was, deeply embedded, that seismic _shock_ she had experienced when first seeing him; her conscious mind had, for a moment, seen what he he truly was, and then she had been made to forget so that the image smudged and faded.

It was happening again. If Martha had not been in such a state of high-tension, had the circumstances not been so unusual, she might not have noticed it. Most people, she was sure, did not.

‘Who are you?’ she cleared her throat. ‘You’re not...human, are you?’

His head shook once. ‘Thou hast always known there is more than this world, hast thou not?’

Through the unbelief, the caution, another feeling swelled and grew like a chord of music: it was pure excitement, vindication, the sense of a door being opened wide to allow in light and air and _understanding_.

‘I am the thought of a Creator,’ he said simply. ‘Born into the form of an Elf in another world; one very like this, almost but not quite identical in its history. There are so many worlds, some as far apart as the thickness of gossamer.’

‘A multiverse,’ Martha almost blurted in her haste to speak. ‘And you — he — uses the thin places, Portals, don’t you? I always thought so—‘

‘Yes.’

There were too many questions. She settled on one: ‘Why?’

He looked at her seriously. ‘That is a very long, and ancient story.’ His long lashes dropped as if he were thinking, and then he said, ‘We cannot stay here, come.’

His urgency affected her; she glanced around,  
‘What the hell’s going on? Why would someone put you down there?’

‘Also a long story, but to put it in its simplest and most succinct form: I did something they did not approve of. And I think we should go now, before he comes back.’

‘Who?’ she demanded. ‘You do know the army’s evacuated this village, yes? There’s a nuclear sub with a leak in the Inner Sound.’ Supposedly.

‘I can assure you that he wasn’t evacuated,’ the man replied. ‘And I very much doubt there is any such emergency, do not you?’

She eyed him with wary fascination. ‘Couldn’t say.’

And a smile bloomed, slow and lovely like moonrise.  
‘It is what he would do,’ tilting his head toward the pendant. ‘Thou hast felt it, hast thou not? The building of power.’

Ice-water ran down her spine. She thought of the gleaming figure she had seen on the hill behind the Hall. Like him, or rather like that momentary vision of true sight had shown. She shook her head as if trying to dislodge something from her hair and he said again: ‘I think we should go.’

‘Where to?’ But she was glad enough to follow him outside.  
The daylight was shockingly normal. She took a deep breath, shouldering her pack.

‘To the Hall.’ He looked back at her.

‘You think that’s a good idea? Look, I’m going nowhere until you tell me what exactly is going on.’

Again he regarded her. She had the feeling he was assessing what she would believe, what her mind might encompass.  
‘Very well.’

They walked around the side of the house where he paused then, apparently satisfied, gestured and they started down the drive — just as someone turned into it. Both of them froze, as did the woman. Martha, who had spent nights over coffee reading the deep files knew who this was: Claire James who had come from the Clouds. There was a question mark by her name, but her history up to this point was not suspicious.

‘Mel,’ Claire exclaimed. She looked as if she had not slept much, faint lavender shadows like thumbprints lay under her eyes; her red-gold hair fell in untended whorls. Her eyes flicked to Martha, taking in her gear, her combat boots, and backpack with a raised brow.  
‘Why aren’t you evacuated?’ she asked sharply.

‘MI6,’ Martha snapped, and Claire simply blinked as if nothing had the power to astonish her. ‘I mean me,’ Martha added. ‘Not him.’

‘Martha found me in the cellar,’ Mel told her and that _did_ elicit a reaction. Claire’s lips parted.  
‘In the _cellar_?’

‘My father put me there. Listen, we need to speed to Va— to Lucien Steele.’

‘Do you now?’ Grey eyes narrowed, suddenly cool and acute.

‘I know him,’ Mel said softly and reached out a hand. ‘Claire, I am sorry. He made thee forget thou hadst seen me, on the beach that night, when I saw thee riding, when we breakfasted together that morning —‘

Astonishment, anger a look of abrupt awakening dashed over Claire’s delicate features like thrown ice.  
‘Forget,’ she repeated, and then squared up to him. Martha saw her hands clench. ‘I remember, I _remember_. Why? _What are you_?’

‘He knows,’ Mel said. ‘He and Edenel and Coldagnir. They know me.’ Yet he did not look confident in his declaration. His gaze strayed toward the Hall, and it was uncertain, even vulnerable. He turned his head back to Claire.  
‘I was told to become close to thee, so that thou couldst act as an intermediary, but there is more to it than that, far more, and a danger to thee, I think, and I could not go through with it.’

‘Your father,’ she said slowly and then: ‘Eru.’ She exhaled.

Martha’s eyes widened. The name fluttered in her mind like a faded flag on a hilltop. _Eru_? But then Claire whirled away and began to half-walk, half-run toward the Hall. There was no suggestion of fear but rather anger in her rapid stride.

OooOooO

  
  
  
  
  
  
She did not even want to think of his name. It was the name of the ruin behind violet eyes that had filled up with ice. But her instinct was telling her he should run, that Vanimöré was too close to unleashing the power that had rocked the Hall last night and wakened her from sleep. She looked over her shoulder, saw the one she had called Mel close behind and Martha with him, her face alert, watchful.  
  
She did not want to think of his true name, but her mind supplied it anyhow, a whisper of wind through the leaves, raindrops falling in a still forest pool: _Elgalad._ And she remembered Edenel’s words: _Sweet as clover honey and as loving._ Then: _Was that even real_?  
  
_Was it real_? But it was impossible to see evil in that face, a desire to hurt or harm. She slowed, then turned to face him, wanting to hit him, wanting to shout at him to go away. He stopped, waiting, but finally she resumed walking, up the drive where the Hall rose from its trees and gardens, toward a door that she almost shouldered open.  
  
The hall was empty. Wide stairs curved gracefully upward. There was a coat-rack, a polished table with a vase of flowers. The entrance hall was stone flagged, washed and swept clean, the stone worn by years and the passage of feet. A clock ticked in the quiet. Claire hesitated; when she left, Vanimöré had been in the library with Edenel.  
  
She marched across the hall and into the passageway beyond then stopped opposite a closed door. Her mouth went dry suddenly. She did not want to be the one to announce this...visitor and her hand, raised to knock, dropped to her side.  
  
Elgalad cast aside his glamour and stepped up to the door. He looked like wrought-silver, so bright the air seemed to dim around him. There was a sense of gathering thunder and Claire looked at Martha, gesturing to her. _Come on._ She felt as if she were running from imminent disaster and physically sick.  
  
In the kitchen she stopped, leaned against the big table, and listened. Martha turned to her, mouth opening to speak and Claire shook her head quickly.  
  
There was silence.  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

~ Vanimöré looked around as the door opened. Edenel was already facing it, and it was his expression Vanimöré saw first. His heart seemed to stop. The turning seemed to take forever, as if he held Time at bay, not wanting to complete the action.

But the scent struck him first.

There was an explosion within him, pain like a death at the heart of worlds. He held it back, knowing how close he had come in the Lodge to destruction. And something broke deep within him, like a bone, a part of him that had already been broken and never quite knit into wholeness.

Edenel stood frozen, like the ice prince he could so resemble; spirit of winter. Vanimöré saw Elgalad’s eyes, those achingly clear eyes move to him, reach out with love, then return to Vanimöré.

‘I had to see thee.’ That voice...dulcet as dew-fall, sweet-toned.

There was a constriction in Vanimöré’s chest. ‘Didst thou?’ He heard his voice come harsh. ‘Why?’

The silver head shook once. ‘I wanted to help thee, all of thee. They would have told thee, the twins—‘

‘They told me,’ Vanimöré agreed. ‘Eru wants Claire.’

‘I said I would try to help thee, and I intend to, but how can I hide anything from him? He locked me in a cellar. I would have broken free eventually, perhaps not until after Midsummer Eve, but Martha found me and let me out—‘

‘Martha?’ _Gods, Martha too._ And yet he was not in the least surprised.

He found that one hand was clenched over his breast as if to protect his heart, or hold in the fragments that were left and lowered it, embarrassed that Elgalad should see any physical sign of his mental turmoil. ‘Well, go on. What else hast thou to say?’

Under the lash of his voice, Elgalad stiffened, standing tall. Memory crashed brutally into Vanimöré’s mind: Elgalad in Tanith, facing one of the Emir’s hulking killers, looking like a slender blade against the brute’s over-muscled bulk. Elgalad had killed, wrapped in spiked chains and wounded, he had nevertheless torn off the man’s genitals. Elgalad’s silvery beauty, his lovely face were always deceptive. They had deceived Vanimöré for a long time.

The quiet voice dropped. ‘And he wants thee. Surely thou must have known it.’

Vanimöré laughed, a raw sound. ‘No, really? Shall we dispense with the lies? He sent thee.’

‘I do not lie.’

‘Thou didst lie to me for thousands of years!’ Vanimöré slammed his fist back against the wall. There was a crack of stone. Edenel shifted, said into his mind: _Shall I go_?

_No,_ Vanimöré responded. _Why_?

‘Eru created me.’ Elgalad moved, slender, tall, graceful as a a breeze through silver birches. Relentless. Step by step he closed the space between them and, as he passed Edenel, his hand went out, fingers skimming. ‘I obeyed him. I was born of his thought. But I am, too, _myself_.’

Vanimöré felt a craven desire to back away, to run.

Elgalad said, fatally: ‘I was born for thee.’

‘ _Stop,_ ’ Vanimöré commanded him.

Elgalad smiled, and came on. ‘I was the closest he could come to thee, his second son, if thou wilt, but in my making, in my living, I became _real_.’

His fingers touched Vanimöré’s cheek, caressing the curve, then he leaned in and the kiss was feather-light. He meant it to be so, a tantalising brush, but there was nothing tentative about it.

Vanimöré felt himself slipping, falling into brightness, into the uncomplicated loveliness of Elgalad’s love, the _innocence_ that he had yearned for because his own was burnt away, and Elgalad possessed it in profligate abundance. There had been such healing in it.

Vanimöré knew now (had known then) that it was wrong of him to seek healing outside himself, that it was selfish, that one can never look to someone else to heal them; it places an impossible burden upon the other. And knowing it, he had accepted the love anyway. Eventually.

He jerked back. ‘Real? Art thou?

‘My love is real,’ Elgalad smiled. ‘That _is_ what I am, after all.’

‘And _my_ love killed thee,’ Vanimöré threw at him. ‘At least I believed it.’ Pain erupted in him like blood. He had sunk himself in grief and guilt and for _what_?

Elgalad said calmly, ‘Yes. It was part of my mission. I loved thee enough to accept it.’

Vanimöré shuddered like a fly-stung horse. He saw Edenel move, come to his side, the supporting touch of his hand. Elgalad’s eyes moved to him.  
‘Was it not real, Edenel, Elérnil-that-was? _Was my love not real_?’  
The power unveiled there in the quiet library. Elgalad did not even raise his voice but it took on a depth and profundity that filled the room, pressed against the walls. A crack spidered through the glass of the window.

‘Only thou canst know that.’ Edenel’s own power rose to meet Elgalad’s in a challenge. The temperature plunged so that their breast misted on the air, and the heavy curtains caught the wind that came from the nowhere. A North wind. Elgalad’s silver hair stirred. He inclined his head in acknowledgement.  
‘I know it because it was what I was born for. Born _of_. Didst thou not name me, Vanimöré? Elgalad Meluion. Child of Light. Son of Love. Eru created me out of love; not love for me, but love for _thee._ His creations. And his son.’

‘It is not love when there is no freedom,’ Vanimöré informed him, drawing some of Edenel’s winter into his soul. ‘It is _possession._ ’

‘He does not think it so, and that is why I am here.’ Elgalad looked from Vanimöré to Elgalad. ‘Listen to me. There is a place, like the Timeless Halls, but created by Eru. He calls it the Eternal Palace. And that is where he means to take Claire.’

OooOooO


	28. ~ Past-Present ~

  
  
  
  


**~ Past-Present ~**

~ _Eternal Palace._

There had been a dream...(or memory?) towers and walkways, columned rooms that stretched into the clouds, trees dripping gems, gardens that one could never reach the end of. So much beauty. So much loneliness.

‘He hides it from thee. Or perhaps thou doth hide it from thyself.’

Elgalad’s voice startled Vanimöré. The shock it, of the reality of him standing alive and physical in this quiet room, struck him again, a shrapnel of memory that sliced through blood and bone.  
‘Where is he now?’ he demanded.

Elgalad paused, his eyes distant. ‘There, I think.’

‘Well, thou canst go _there_ and tell him that I — _we_ — will not permit him to use Claire James.’ He gave Elgalad his back.

‘Certainly I will have to go to him if he summons me, just as thou didst always have to obey Sauron’s call.’ Vanimöré flinched. ‘But until then, I will not. I have defied him. I do not agree with what he purposes.’

‘Will he punish thee?’ Edenel asked, withdrawing his icy challenge.

‘Unmake me?’ There was a thread of humour in Elgalad’s voice. ‘Possibly.’

‘Vanimöré?’ Edenel said. Just that.

‘Do not look at me to protect him,’ Vanimöré spun around sharply. The words came forced through a constricted throat and then choked to silence for he could not allow himself the rush of emotions, the words of love and hate and betrayal and sheer anguish. And he did not need to say them; Edenel knew well enough.

‘I did not ask it,’ Elgalad murmured. ‘I have told thee what I came here for. And I can use the Portals. Samael Bennett was real, but he is dead, and I will not remain here.’

‘Thou didst truly not know, then?’ Vanimöré asked unwillingly.

Elgalad shook his head. ‘Not until the end.’ Then: ‘Vanimöré, I could tell thee nothing—‘

‘— Thou couldst have tried!’

‘— But I thought thou might guess somewhat. The truth is, thou didst not want to see me as I was, only as what I represented.’

It was like a stinging slap. Unexpected. Vanimöré’s head reared up.

‘Others saw more,’ Elgalad perused remorselessly. ‘Edenel, Fëanor, Maglor, they all saw deeper. All thou didst want was my innocence. But I was created to give thee that. To _be_ that. Too much, I think. But I do not repine.’

‘And with no choice at all! How canst thou call that living? How is that _real_?’

‘I do not know,’ Elgalad replied still with that little undercurrent of humour. ‘How is anyone to know what is real? I only know what I am. And I feel and love and yes, hate, as much as thou.’

‘Tell me something.’ Despite the lingering chill of the room, Vanimöré’s cheeks burned. ‘After. After thy supposed death, when I destroyed myself to go _Outside_. Who came back, thyself, or Eru? Who was with me in Valinor?’

‘So black and white?’ Elgalad murmured. ‘I am part of him, and he of me. And then, at the end, we were as one.’

Vanimöré’s mind plunged like a stooping hawk into memory. He had _known_ Elgalad was different after, that their relationship was fundamentally altered. Elgalad was not an Elf, had been revealed as a god, and so Vanimöré accepted that he shed some of his assumed persona. The hitch of a stammer was gone. He passed their every interaction under his mind’s eye and bit down on a groan. And yet there was an unwelcome prick of pity, that Eru was alone, could only manifest himself in the Timeless Halls, tasting a little of what he had lost.  
‘Did he not know?’ he cried. ‘Did he not know what would happen?’

‘I believe he guessed it yes. Or saw the possibility.’

‘Then why did he not prevent it?’ Vanimöré’s anguish rattled the windows. He took two strides toward Elgalad and gripped his shoulders. It was a mistake. The warmth of him, the scent, the feel of his muscles, was too familiar. He watched as the black pupils widened. Elgalad was not in fact, particularly submissive, not like Bainalph of the Greenwood, but he could play the part well.

‘Not submissive,’ Elgalad agreed. ‘Or only to thee.’

The library door closed. Vanimöré looked around, and threw after Edenel: _Go to Claire and Martha. Watch them. Martha...tell her. Why not? She has the kind of mind to accept it. I do not trust this._ Not at all. _Ignorance can be deadly._  
Slowly, he lifted his hands away.  
‘In essence, he programmed thee. He knew me well.’

‘Again, that is too black and white.’ Elgalad’s delicate brows dipped. ‘I am a thoughform of Eru’s that became real, but at the beginning, when I came into being, I do not think he knew what I would do. It was _I_ who decided that. I existed long before thou wert born in the shadows of Tol-in-Gaurhoth. I believe I was an _accident_ , or at least a subconscious reaction: the part of him that unconditionally loved because there is naught unconditional in his love now.’

Vanimöré nodded curly. He knew it. Restless, uncomfortable, his pulse tripping under his skin, he prowled the room.

‘I do not _know_ this,’ Elgalad’s voice perused him. ‘But I think Eru could not bear to still love those who had turned against him. He could not bear, either, what he had done to them. Remember when thou didst first see him in the Timeless Halls?’

‘Yes,’ Vanimöré answered impatiently. ‘And either he lied to me or it was an Eru of a different universe. I do not much care which.’

‘Neither.’ Elgalad’s voice stopped him in his peregrinations. He turned.  
‘Thou hast not then come into thy full power. I did not know what Eru might do, but I did not want to risk the two of thee meeting. I wove an illusion, from memory and truth.’

‘So I did _not_ see Eru, or travel to the Timeless Halls,’ Vanimöré stated.

‘What is real, Vanimöré? Some of it was true.’

‘Perhaps.’ He picked up a paperweight, a geode cut in half to show the amethyst within the skin of rock, a spiky crackle of purple mountains, and thought of how the Silmaril had hidden itself. _I wonder...I wonder..._  
‘Yes.’ He frowned. ‘He said he had ripped what became Melkor out of him, but I imagine thou didst use that example because what he ripped from himself was _thee._ ’

‘So I think, yes. And I loved thee. I elected to be born on Middle-earth.’ He took a step toward Vanimöré who glared at him, warning. Elgalad said,

‘He did not know what thou wouldst become. Thy resistance was...unexpected.’  
  
Resistance? Ah yes, to Elgalad’s beauty and love that refused to be dismissed. He felt his muscles harden, priming to fight or to flee.  
‘So, he set the pieces on the game board and had no more to do with it, sat and watched as those he had loved went down in grief and blood and torment and were sent to the Void as a punishment.’ _Such an unholy creator, such an angry god, burnt by rejection and turned into ice, treading the narrow verge of madness. But am I any better_? He set down the paperweight carefully, quashing a desire to hurl it and raised his head.  
‘I am sorry he did that to thee.’ His voice was flat as sheet metal. ‘Perhaps it was not intentional, but Eru gave thee no choice. Thou wert born into a prison. And I know how that feels.’ _And nevertheless, I cannot forgive._  
  
‘As a prison, it had its compensations,’ Elgalad essayed a slight, smile as if he had not heard that last thought. ‘Wouldst thou say I did not live? Truly? What was it, then?’ He trailed his fingers over the spines of books. ‘On Middle-earth, I had freedom. I would not take that back. I remember...’  
  
The images struck Vanimöré like an arrow-bolt between the eyes, and with the keen sweetness that had lingered on his tongue ever after, that he had supped from in guilt-ridden anguish after Elgalad was gone.  
_Yes._ He remembered. And, most dearly, most clearly, the time when they wandered, after Angmar, not lovers but close, together and _free._ He had walked away from the Noldor, with love and regret and grief but he knew they, too were free, and _alive._ That had been enough.  
  
Good years, light and easy, perhaps the best of his long life, despite the erotic charge between them that he had promised himself he would never act upon: ( _’Thou art mine to protect, not mine to use, my dear.’_ ).  
  
Even when he ruled Sud Sicanna he had not been free because to rule is a duty. But in those years, before he founded the Imperium, he had felt the shackles that bound him drop away. They would close again, soon enough. He would don them himself because all he knew was rule and war, and he considered those years idle, almost lazy; but he allowed himself that time.  
  
‘Yes,’ he murmured. ‘I remember...’  
  
‘Nights in caravanserais...’ Elgalad’s voice wove seamlessly into the vision of the past.  
  
Swathed like the Haradhrim against the sun, they escaped notice and were simply anonymous guards who blended with the others. The caravanserais were busy places where much small trade went on; the ring of smithies, the sharp scent of their smoke, the sharper the back-and-forth chat of barter in the background. When the swift night fell they might join communal fires eating spiced mutton and flatbread, olives and figs and honey-dripping dates.  
  
‘And Umbar...’  
  
...Watching the ships of many lands dock at the various harbours: whalers out of the north that stank of rendered blubber, spices from the south, timber, cloth, exotic birds and beasts, and the good wine of the Umbar hills rolling out in endless casks to flow southward and north to Dol Amroth. The air was pungent, loud with the babble of many tongues, but away from the harbour the narrow streets were vivid with hot-coloured flowers hanging from balconies, the air sweeter. In the wealthy quarter, wrought-iron gates showed glimpses of serene gardens, and white-walled villas.  
  
Vanimöré followed the vision North to Dale and Esgaroth, where they had sometimes overwintered, (so that Elgalad could visit the Greenwood) their streets hearty with trade even in the cold, braziers burning in shop-fronts and the market. Roast chestnuts, fried fish, fresh bread, hot spiced cider and ale; the waft of heat as an inn door opened to admit Men or Dwarves swathed in furs. The scent of frosted pine. On clear winter days the Long Lake glowed sapphire under the winter sun, with the fang of Erebor rising white in the distance, and the dark margin of the forest roared when the wild winds blew.  
  
Trade cities of the Harad, lively, bright with colour, high-walled against the desert, where the women moved like dancers and the air was burnt cinnamon. And the stars, always, infinite, endless, laid like a priceless cloth across the night sky. The horizons that ever unfurled before them, beckoning them on, shimmering in heat haze, the sand whipping in eldritch patterns across immense dunes, or the waterless hardpan where mirages tempted the thirsty traveller to oases that vanished like a night moth’s kiss. Lonely, brutal, starkly beautiful.  
  
There was a convivial evening in Erebor where they had diced with a young dwarf, Bári, whose white teeth gleamed through a beard black as jet; a widow-innkeeper in Khand who had caught a glimpse of Elgalad’s lovely face and mothered him during their stay. As their first employer, Edric, grew more prosperous and hired more guards, Vanimöré and Elgalad sometimes took their leave, attaching themselves to other traders. To Sud Sicanna he would not go, with its memories of Dana, but they saw Sudu Cull, the Sultanate of Raj, Isfahan, with its fountains and fabled rose-pink towers, and Obarmarl in hard, wind-scoured Upper Khand. They had come to the Empire of the Southern Dragon, and crossed West to the rich coastal petty-kingdoms that tumbled southward from Umbar. Often their paths took them through a small trade city called Pashaar on the edge of the Sea of Fire which became, in time, the seat of Vanimöré’s Imperium.  
  
There had been times of poor weather, sheltering against sandstorms and bandit attacks. There was sometimes danger, but Vanimöré’s knowledge of the Harad, especially the north and its tribes, had served them, and their employers, well.  
Danger notwithstanding, he had ever looked back on those years as a golden-tinted time. Freedom.  
  
And, at whiles, adventure. If one could call it that. Or echoes of the dragging fingers of the past that refused to relinquish him.  
  
Wrakyaberg, the town was called, near the headwaters of the Anduin, north of the Greenwood and South of the Ered Mithrim. He had crossed this wild land with its scattered steadings and stockaded villages hunting orcs after the War of the Ring, but it was not orcs that troubled the citizens when Vanimöré and Elgalad arrived there.  
  
Elgalad had pulled out a book, an old leather bound edition of _The Vampyre_ , by John Polidori. He opened it delicately, cast a glance at Vanimöré from under thick lashes.  
  
Yes, he remembered. The curse he bore, as Elves did, never to forget anything.  
  
They had heard the news in Erebor from trappers coming in with their skins from the wilderness. Autumn then, the leaves beginning to turn, the wind yet mild, gusting up from the south. Edric had returned from his yearly run, a little more stout with the years, a little more ruddy, well pleased with his profit, looking forward to a winter at home.  
  
A blood-drinker, the trappers said, hard men and solitary who knew the land and the creators that lived in it. A ghoul, maybe. Sheep and goats found drained of blood, and once, in late summer, a man.  
  
‘Ghouls from D-Dol Guldur?’ Elgalad had wondered later, when they were alone. The ancient fortress had been thrown down after Sauron’s defeat, and the forest was cleansed, _Eryn Lasgalen._ Yet some of the creatures that had inhabited the woods around Dol Guldur might have escaped and found their way northward.  
  
‘Possibly,’ Vanimöré said slowly. He had known Dol Guldur well of old, and it was the place where Elgalad had developed this hitch of speech, not a stammer, but more a nervous tick in pronunciation. Vanimöré had wondered, later, if it were an act, then decided it was not.  
  
‘Didst thou ever know what became of him?’ Elgalad asked now.  
  
Daehir, he had called himself, Shadow Lord, but with a bright, bitter, black lilt of self-mockery in his voice. Blood of Thuringwethil and rare; Thuringwethil did not produce offspring as women did. But she had found a way: her bite was poison; her blood, however, could transform.  
Vanimöré had gone to kill; in the end, he had not. *  
  
‘No,’ he said shortly. ‘Or yes. He would have died when the universe itself ended. Enough! Do not think to make me fly from the scent.’ He struggled out of the images as one throws off a drugged dream.  
  
‘I was simply remembering.’ But the words were spell-work. And, because he was a god, and Vanimöré, embodied in this world, had less power, Elgalad could send those memories into his mind like like fresh-cut jewels. And each sharp edge _hurt._  
  
‘I _do not want to remember,_ he shouted. ‘It is _gone_. All of it. _Why did he not prevent the end of the universe_?’ He spun away, paced up the room and at the following silence, turned back.  
‘Well?’  
  
Elgalad’s gaze was unblinking. So much power there. ‘Eru can and does conceal things from me, Vanimöré. I saw out of his eyes at the end — and after. But why art thou asking? He wanted to begin again, anew. And thou didst stand in the way. _A new heaven and a new Earth_ ,’ he quoted with a sinuous gesture of one hand. ‘He wished to recreate what was lost in the Ancient universe, just as thou doth wish to recreate the one that is gone. Art thou so very different?’  
  
‘I would not want them to be puppets, children, protected from every whim and every danger,’ Vanimöré flashed. ‘And I would not — will not — destroy to rebuild again!’  
  
‘But thou canst comprehend why he did,’ Elgalad stated. And it was inarguable. The love that, for so long, had been enough, and then, at the end, _that_ look of brittle cynicism and hate, and still, love. Perhaps it was why Vanimöré shied away from love, why it had taken him so long to accept Elgalad’s, because he knew how it could grow teeth.  
  
‘And thou — what do they say here? — thou wert the serpent in his Eden.’  
  
Vanimöré laughed. There could be no other response. ‘I would call that high tragedy, except that it goes far beyond tragedy. He loved us yes, but he wanted to _own_ Why? What was _his_ creator, that he did not trust us to be free? What burdens did he bring to his own universe?’  
  
‘I do not know,’ Elgalad said slowly. ‘Dost thou?’  
  
_Do I_? He pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes. There was a point where he could go no further, where his memory lost itself. He needed to be on the Outside to see everything. And even then, Eru cloaked himself. Elgalad’s voice came from very close.  
‘And I did not try to own thee.’  
  
He dropped his hands. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Did he learn, then, and know I would never be chained?’  
  
‘ _I_ knew it. And I loved others too.’  
  
‘Yes, those whom _he_ had loved and punished. I hope he got some satisfaction from it.’  
  
‘He regretted what he did.’  
  
‘Regret is easy. Too easy.’  
  
‘Vanimöré, do not forget it was _thee_ who created the universe that is gone, at least in part. And this one is thine entirely.’ He closed the book, returned it to its place.  
  
Motes of golden dust spiralled in the room with its scent of wac polish and old leather and ink. Vanimöré lifted one hand to catch it, as if it were a galaxy, circling.  
  
‘Remember when thou didst encounter him, in the nothingness between?’ Vanimöré closed his eyes. ‘Holding the Elves of New Cuivíenen within thee, tight to thy heart, and he asked thee to release them, to give them to him. All they memories of _life._? Thou wouldst not. And he fought thee. In that battle the new universe was formed.’  
  
Vanimöré’s memory dropped back into that black no-place, the potentially that existed after the destruction of the ancient universe, and before the creation of another. There he had found a Mind who spoke to him, the Eru who wandered in rage and grief, and the Eru of the future. Both had tried to own him, to have him give up what was within him...  
  
‘Wait,’ he said, catching at a flying thought, then Elgalad’s eyes, splendid and luminous, snared his again, and he reacted to them with a mental wrench that drew him back to the present. He dredged up words like gravel from a riverbed.  
‘I created out of rage and passion; he created out of love. The Eternal Palace is his place and the Monument is mine. Apt.’ He laughed sardonically, thinking of the mourning of those ochre winds, the utter aloneness. ‘Art thou saying his creation was finer? It was. But I have no time for this now, or for him. Or for _thee_. Knowest thou what has happened? What the Valar have _done_?’ And his black fury overwhelmed even his rage at Elgalad’s (Eru’s) deception.  
  
He found the rage looking back at him. Rare were the times he had seen Elgalad angry. Naturally, he thought, cynical to the bone. It had fitted ill with his persona. In battle he fought as naturally as breathing but coolly, without emotion. Now his clear eyes burned.  
‘I love them. _He_ loves them. Yes, he knows. And wishes to see what will happen.’  
  
‘I will do naught,’ Vanimöré said bitterly. ‘I will disarm the Valar, but their judgement is in the hands of those they have damned.’  
  
‘As it should be.’ Elgalad inclined his lovely head, grave as a judge. ‘But—‘ And he raised it and flashed a startling smile. ‘I _wish to witness._ ’  
  
Astonishing him, an answering smile quivered on Vanimöré’s mouth. Revenge was something he understood.  
  
‘If thou art here—‘  
  
‘If I am here.’  
  
‘Thou didst remember nothing as Samael Bennett,’ he said sharply. ‘Eru sent thee to be born into that place, that time, knowing what he did, knowing what thou wouldst suffer.’ _Perhaps he would indeed unmake thee. Or send thee to be reborn in another world, to suffer again..._  
  
Elgalad nodded soberly. ‘I agreed to it, as before. I knew I would not remember for some time. It was Dol Guldur, in Middle-earth.’  
  
‘Why?’ Vanimöré sighed. ‘Dost thou not know it is ended? Nothing can ever be made anew. We can never go back.’  
  
‘I accepted that long ago,’ Elgalad told him with a deep, almost stern look. ‘It makes no difference. I love thee, and _them_ , too. I care about thee.’  
  
‘ _They are gone_! Some few left, Celebrimbor in the Timeless Halls, the _Ithiledhil_ and Finwë, Coldagnir. A handful. I lost them. I did not _see_. I did not want to dwell in the Outside and know _everything_. Had I done so, I would have seen the possibility at least, one of a multitude. I would have unmade Morgoth. I did not, I just wanted to walk among them, be with them.’ The fruition of a lifetime of longing. Pure self-interest. ‘And I lost them.’  
  
The air quivered, settled in the wake of his rage. Elgalad stood, silvery, serious, watching him. He said, ‘Then thou wilt understand that I wished to be with thee, and those I love.’  
  
Vanimöré stared at him. Contradictions of hate and love clawed blood trails through his heart.  
In the end, fairness compelled him. ‘Yes.’ His voice came rough-napped. ‘I understand. Thou hast the right to exist.’  
  
‘And if I can, somewhere, not here, and nowhere like it, but _somewhere_. I would like to live as once I did. To learn to be myself.’  
  
Vanimöré choked on something half-laugh-half-sob. ‘I, too.’  
  
Elgalad gleamed warmly. ‘Thou wert always thyself, save for a time in the Ancient universe, between thy birth and growing into an adult. Thou didst make thyself _remember_ , and then, it began.’  
  
‘I know,’ Vanimöré said, and breathed in deeply, flooding his stress-cramped lungs. ‘But he should never have tried to cage us with his love.’  
  
‘Perhaps,’ Elgalad said. ‘That was all he knew. He only knew how to _love._ Thou art so very different.’ With patient, relentless footsteps he closed the distance between them and lifted one hand, drawing it up Vanimöré’s cheekbones, over his hair, down the nape of his neck, bared by the lifted plume of his hair. Vanimöré’s skin flushed and sparked under his touch.  
‘Such a cold fire,’ Elgalad murmured.  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the names of places that are not from Tolkien are borrowed from the Lindefirion site or created by me. 
> 
> * This story will very likely be a gap-filler. Apart from Angmar, there were years between the return of the Noldor and when Vanimöré went to Tanith in Dark Lands and began to found the Imperium. I’m sure there are tales to be told.


	29. ~ Openings ~

  
  
  


**~ Openings ~**

~ _He is charming you, idiot. Playing you like the fool you are._  
Sauron’s irritated snap was like the flick of a hot wire on bare skin. Vanimöré jerked away from it, drew back from Elgalad.

_I know it._

Elgalad said nothing, nor did he try and reestablish contact. He merely looked with those pure and crystalline eyes. Unworldly, otherworldly. Trusting. And with that thought, came the stealthy slide of the knife into Vanimöré’s heart.  
_He is Eru’s creation but_ I _raised him._ A baby, a child born of a thought and _innocent_ , given to one who had lost that or perhaps never possessed it. Whatever Eru had done, Elgalad, as he was then, knew nothing of it.

Vanimöré had possessed no knowledge of how to raise a child, only observations gathered in the course of his life; he had watched the women of the Eastern tribes with their children. And so he raised the boy given to him, and did it well because he was determined to. While he could not give Elgalad a settled home or a mother, he could ensure at least that his upbringing was as far from Vanimöré’s own as it was possible to be.

For a time, everything had revolved around that child and there was joy in it and discovery, seeing Elgalad thrive and grow. Teaching him. Vanimöré knew he could never keep him, that Sauron would call him back to service yet it was, like those latter years after the War of the Ring, a time of almost-happiness cut from the cloth of his existence. He tucked them away to draw out in memory long after, the colours unfaded, still lovely, with a scent like spring.

He knew he was being played. How could it be otherwise? Yet still, did he not have a duty?

He could see, in his mind, his father’s expression, and he said, aloud: ‘What then? Should I kill him — _again_? Eru will only bring him back if he finds a use for him.’ Elgalad’s long lashes flickered. ‘And if he has no use for him, will unmake him. Better to keep him under my eye. And I think...’ He placed his fingers under Elgalad’s chin and lifted it. ‘Thou art the best of him. However thou wert created, in the manner of thy becoming, the love within him passed to thee. What is left is not what I recognise as love.’

 _Do you not?_ Sauron sounded amused. _It is the love of an absolute power. The love of an Overmind is a kind of madness. Alien. A cup too strong to drunk from. But do not underestimate him. Eru is not wholly insane, or if he is, it is a most controlled insanity. And you may be doing exactly what he wants you to._

_I may be, yes. And if that is so, I want to know why._

‘A wager then.’ He tossed it into the aether like a thrown gauntlet. ‘That Eru will not confront me if I take thee under my protection.’ He withdrew his hand. ‘And perhaps thou may serve to warn me if he attempts something. If there was no choice in what thou art, thou art not to blame. But I cannot forgive.’

‘I know it.’ The mellifluous voice was a softer echo of his own words.

His equanimity was a relief; Vanimöré had been half-afraid Elgalad might try to cling, and emotional neediness had no place in his life. All very well for children, but ill-suited to adults, and here and now, even had he been inclined to indulge it (which he was not) there was no time for anything but action.

Elgalad smiled, that sweetly charming smile. ‘Didst thou think I would run after thee as I did when I was young?’ he wondered. ‘I was frightened, then, in love, and was left alone. I know thou didst do it for the best, but I had not remembered whom I was and thou wert all I knew. Of course I pursued thee. It was not from some...’ He wrinkled his straight nose. ‘Some kind of perverted sexual desire for thee as a father figure and lover both. I knew thou wert not my father. Thou didst ensure I knew it.’ Vanimöré nodded curtly. ‘But when I grew toward adulthood, I desired thee.’ He tilted his lovely head. ‘Didst thou ever feel that Sauron was thy father, Vanimöré?’

He almost rocked back on his heels, yet he smiled with dour appreciation. ‘A hit,’ he acknowledged.

‘My thanks. And one can love without neediness, without clinging, Vanimöré.’

‘Good, because I have no patience for such things,’ Vanimöré said crisply. ‘I would unmake thee myself rather than deal with it. I must go to Valinor, to light the way and pull the fangs of the Valar. Thou wilt come with me. I can take on the skin of my true power, there. And after, let the dice fall as they will.’

‘So be it,’ Elgalad murmured. ‘Or...thou couldst throw the dice thyself, Vanimöré.’

Vanimöré frowned at him, then strode the door, Elgalad following.

In the kitchen, Edenel sat talking to Claire and Martha. Martha did not appear in the least guilty or abashed. There were a certain wild-eyed look for what she had heard, for Edenel, shed of glamour, which she turned on Vanimöré and Elgalad as they entered.

Edenel snapped a look at Vanimöré which strayed to Elgalad. His face remained expressionless as he said, _I have told Martha. Not the details but the meat of the matter._

_My thanks._

Claire was pouring tea, adding a drop of whiskey to each of the mugs.

‘Well, Martha, I cannot pretend I am surprised, but thou must stay here now, until Midsummer is past. I suppose I will let Charlie know that you came at my request.’

Martha stared, moistened her lips and started: ‘Mr Steele...’ then her mouth twisted. ‘But you’re not, are you?’

‘Thou didst know I was not,’ he replied, refusing to slip into the modern idiom. ‘Call me Vanimöré if thou wilt, but do not speak that name to anyone else, even Charlie.’

Claire pushed a mug toward her. ‘I know it’s hard,’ she said with a companionable smile.

‘Thank you.’ Martha drank, her eyes still on him, then moving to Elgalad. ‘This isn’t the...ah...end of the world or anything, is it?’ She tried to speak lightly.

‘Not yet,’ Vanimöré smiled. ‘But there will be a great deal of power here on Midsummer Eve. Thou canst feel it,’ he added.

She nodded. ‘Can’t say this is exactly what I was expecting though.’

‘Thou art one of the few who do not walk around with closed eyes and mind,’ he said. ‘Which is why thou wilt be an excellent assistant to Charlie. I wonder if this was too much, too soon? But it is done now.’

‘Damage control?’ she quipped.

‘Precisely. I have called my sister to return, to be here with thee during Midsummer Eve.’

‘Well.’ Martha swallowed. ‘What _is_ going to happen?’

‘Too much,’ he said, and gestured to the pendant hanging about her neck. ‘I did not give thee this because it was pretty, Martha. Look after it, and wear it. It is important.’

She weighed the jewel in her hand, nodded. Her eyes narrowed as if to bring him into sharper focus. ‘I will,’ she promised.

OooOooO

~ Martha and Claire were alone. Something bubbled, savoury and comforting, on the stove and the room was quiet.

It was easier for Martha to understand her own reactions through the eyes of someone who had already experienced this, someone human, recognisable. She knew well enough that the human brain is exceptionally good at forgetting something it cannot accept. It is a defence mechanism and useful. But Martha did not want to forget.

‘You won’t unless you want to,’ Claire said after listening to her. ‘Luc and I were given the choice to forget. But some things, I think, force us to see, to believe. Some things...’ A rueful smile flickered on her lovely, serious face. ‘Crack us wide open.’

‘And then we’re never the same,’ Martha murmured.

‘No,’ Claire made a face, a quirk of brow and mouth, wry. ‘You could say that.’  
  
‘He didn’t tell me everything did he, Edenel?’ And Vanimöré had told her nothing at all.  
  
‘Everything would take too long,’ Claire said slowly. ‘Everything is...too much, all at once. But I think Vanya will tell you, if you want...’ She fell silent, her eyes rising to the door, and Martha turned in her seat.  
  
She saw a tall woman in a long red gown that flowed about bare feet. Gold clasped the the ankles and a torc twisted like a serpent around a slender neck. Black hair spilled to the floor.  
  
Martha saw the woman and _saw..._  
a great tree with roots that touched the Earth’s molten core. A mountain reaching to the stars. A dark and secret grove where yew trees whispered their immortal secrets into the ears of the Wise. A cave decorated with crystals. A Mother. A lover. A sister. A child held in the arms of the brother who thought he could save her only by killing her.  
  
Then the face and form changed, different women, all nations and ages, old and young, the ripeness of the middle years. All of them seemed familiar.  
  
She was frozen, held in the regard of eyes that went back to the times of her first ancestors.  
  
And the eyes smiled.  
‘Ah. Thou art one of mine.’ Like a landslide, a river, like the unstoppable flow of lava, her robe trailing fire, the woman approached and laid on hand on Martha’s head. Her scalp heated through the mass of her curls. Blood shocked, scalding in her veins like a splash of hot wine. She wanted to weep; she wanted to curse, she wanted to dance. She wanted to throw herself at the woman’s feet and know all the secrets of the universe.  
  
Then the smile, like the hand, gentled, smoothing down her hair to rest on her shoulder.  
‘All of the Children of the Earth are mine, though most forget it.’ Her voice was like the chime of water droplets in lightless pools. ‘But the power that rises here is not of the Earth, my daughter, so we will observe this together, thou and I.’  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

~ Manwë and Námo drew back. Their eyes on the warrior were avid as rape. Eönwë, commanded to test their experiment, drew his swords. The Warrior mirrored his moves, sweeping fluidly into the forms of battle, his eyes barely blinking.

Eönwë heard the murmurs of appreciation from the Valar, their gloating chuckles. He sheathed his weapons, stepping closer to check over the Warrior’s armour. It was perfect. He knew its maker. How could it be less? All the dints and damage of battle had long been repaired and it shone as if new.

A whisper in his mind, the burn of ice-fire wine on his lips, stinging.

‘Bring him.’ Manwë’s robes hushed as he turned. Eönwë looked around, saw the Valar preparing to leave the chamber. Manwë said, ‘When the way opens, send him through.’

At the base of the long funnel, Eönwë wrapped his arms around the Warrior. His wings snapped out, lifting them both and swiftly, briefly, he touched his mouth to the Warrior’s. He felt the cool flesh quiver faintly under his, and his own body blazed with heat.  
Such a _transgression_. The unforgivable sin.

The Valar, ascending, did not notice. Eönwë hoped that indifference would be their downfall. He caught the thought as if it were a bird startling out of its covert, flying free. Another transgression buried deep for Ages.

~ Not all of the Valar gathered at the Mahanaxar; Aulë was missing, Oromë, Estë, Nessa and Irmo were likewise absent. Varda was there. Her perfect face wore a small, contemptuous smile. The most difficult of all the Powers to know, thought Eönwë, save Irmo, and the most aloof. She knew that Manwë and Námo did not have enough strength to open a way from Valinor without aid, and would need hers. The Straight Road had been erased long ago, and Valars power was much reduced.

There were only four Eldar present: Ingwë down from Taniquetil, and Finarfin with his surviving (if it could be called that) children, Finrod and Galadriel. Eönwë remembered all of them from the days when their blood ran free. He thought of Ingwë from the long road into the West, the Great Journey: frost-white hair plaited with eagle and raven feathers and lapis lazuli beads no more blue than his eyes. A fey people the Vanya, in those far-off days: dreamers and warriors, dancers, lovers. Little wonder Manwë had emasculated their leader without compunction or pity. If Finwë had acquiesced to the Laws of Aman out of a certain grim and pragmatic expediency, and Olwë only gradually and reluctantly, Ingwë had needed the hammer of a god’s will to tame him and his daughter, Indis.

Such alien thoughts. But were they really? Long ago when he had soared higher than the great eagles, ridden upon the storms, Eönwë had fought the Powers, trusting them no more than he did the Dark God who came down in fire and iron to throw down mountains and tilt the seas from their beds. All of them were from the Outside, strangers to Arda.

 _Eönwë._ ...a flash of purple eyes under winging brows, a rill of black lashes, a swirl of stars...a breath, a glimpse of knowing and unknowing: ancient, vital, passionate, a struggle of emotions that only the living and _alive_ could comprehend. And a power so titanic it was like the birth and death of the world.

Eyes upon him, the stroke of presence up his spine. He turned his head, and saw...nothing. But he _felt._

_Prince of the Winds._

_Lord of Storms._

His mouth filled with a taste like the white mead once distilled from the snowflowers that had grown on Taniquetil and the vats of Light from Laurelin and Telperion. Drink of the gods. But the flowers had withered long ago, and Ungoliant had drained the vats dry. The so-called white mead drunk now was little more than its name.

But the taste on his lips burned as ice burns, potent and maddening to the edge of pain. He wondered if that one brief touch from his mouth to the Warrior’s had elicited the same response. Under the helm, those magnificent eyes might have been jewels, utterly sightless. But Eönwë had seen them move, flicker to the Valar and back to him.

_Wait._

There was a change in the light; Eönwë turned to see the Valar come together, concentrating to draw the power that once had once come to them easily as breathing. Varda sucked it from the sun, so that the sky dimmed over the Mahanaxar.

Manwë pushed Ingwë away, impatient, mannerless as he ever was with his underlings, so that the Vanyarin High King caught himself in a half-stumble then moved away to join the other Elves. The Valar grouped together in a circle facing one another, hands touching, eyes closed. Eönwë saw the strain on those faces visible to him.

They were unaware. Eönwë and the others were so little to them, so cowed and bowed, that the Valar hardly even saw them any more.

 _Prince of the Winds_...

His lips burned. He looked back at the Warrior standing like a temple statue and then turned.

There was nothing. There was something. A certain quality of the light, shimmering.

The tension in him coiled tight as a scorpion’s tail.

OooOooO

~ Midsummer Eve. The air stretched tight as a drumhead. All of them waiting.

Vanimöré did not allow Elgalad out of his sight through that last short and sleepless night, and kept him away from the others. They had their own concerns. And he had his. Too much could go wrong. All he had, in the end, here and now, was faith.  
So frail a thing.

A short night, and an endless one. He had walked down to the cove, recognising his own extreme vigilance in Elgalad’s presence. It would be too easy to slip back into old ways of trust and conversation. He was wary as he had been before his ascent into power, and the loss of trust, that wound of betrayal bled anew. Once, he would have given all he was, to look around and see Elgalad standing beside him. _Yes, but why? To expunge thee of the guilt of his death_?

Elgalad, by contrast, was calm. The moon dripped light over his silver hair, rendered his face into the simplified beauty of a carved angel.

Vanimöré watched as the light grew. _The Longest Day._ Milky and calm at first, it beat the loch into polished pewter and tinged the eastern sky. Then relentless, immense, thunderheads climbed over the rim of the mountains. The rising sun blazed them war-banner red.

‘It is time.’

There was a standing stone in the village, part of a wall that had been built around it. Vanimöré used this; none of them would approach the Blackwater and its solitary menhir, not yet. The creature that dwelt in the depths was too close to awakening.

‘We will go unclad while we are there, at least at first,’ he told Elgalad, who inclined his head.  
‘Vanimöré...’

‘What is it?’ he snapped, resentful of the familiarity implicit in Elgalad’s use of his name, yet who had a better right save his father?

‘Thou couldst destroy Valinor itself,’ Elgalad said softly. ‘Chain thy lightning.’

‘Is that why thou art here, to observe me? To ensure I do not _break_ anything?’

‘Eru is observing.’

‘Oh, I am _sure_ he is observing. He prefers not to dirty his hands, does he not? Perhaps destroying one universe was enough,’ Vanimöré responded, acerbic. ‘I will not break Valinor. It is for the Elves. They will need a place of healing and peace for a time.’

Elgalad folded a downward-glancing smile. He looked up and the smile hovered on his mouth like a butterfly.  
‘Yet I know thy temper. Thou art not as cold as thou wouldst believe.’

Vanimöré started to speak, then caught himself and said, bitter honey on his tongue: ‘How long did it take thee to seduce Fëanor, my dear?’ _When I battled with Ungoliant in the Void and swore to remain there rather than allow my father and Morgoth ingress to my soul. It was thee who forced me to return._ *

Elgalad held his gaze. The smile faded.  
‘I feared for thee when thou didst vanish on the Isle,’ he said sombrely. ‘I do not possess all of Eru’s sight or omniscience. I truly did fear. I needed thee to be enraged enough to break out, and I knew how protective of me thou wert—‘

‘—Oh yes, I broke free. And with Sauron and Melkor within me!’

‘Which had its purpose. Fëanor needed to be born again, into more power. His own is such that it cannot be easily absorbed. His rebirth with thy blood was a stepping stone to his apotheosis.’

‘I know that. And still...’ He spread one hand on the ancient stone, pressed until pain stabbed through his bones and blanched his knuckles.

‘In answer to thy question: I loved him too, and wanted him, and Maglor also. I simply pressed the matter a little, gave it some urgency. And,’ Elgalad added simply. ‘It worked, did it not?’

‘How very _pragmatic_ of thee.’

‘And he was glorious, he and Maglor.’

‘Yes,’ Vanimöré whispered, unseeing. ‘Yes, they were. And so they will be. I have sworn it.’

He stepped through the Portal, Elgalad with him.

And through...from one world to another. He braced as Power rushed into him, eager as a conquering lover. It was like taking a gulp of air after holding one’s breath for a long time, so long the lungs are bursting, the body craving oxygen, but multiplied a millionfold. He inhaled the power of stars, tasted blooded steel and burnt gemstones. He shed his form instantly.

When he entered Aman to take the Silmaril, he had deliberately shown forth power. This time, he was as quiet as a soldier in enemy territory.

He did not call it knowledge; it was, though only he and Eru might comprehend it. The part of him, the greater part, that dwelt always on the Outside, in the Monument, knew the moment to enter Valinor, when the attention of the Valar would be directed elsewhere.

He had come to Tirion.

It would have to be here, he thought, remembering when they Elves had come from Middle-earth. Armed and glorious, the dorsal of their banners snapping like flames, they had struck Tirion like an enfilade, and the city blazed with their light.

Now, the city was empty. A shadowy, blueish gloom draped the mansions and towers, lay over the wide, paved streets. A shroud thrown over a pale corpse.

Valinor’s power as an in-between place had prevented decay; Tirion’s inhabitants might simply have been removed, leaving the city empty. It was pristine, lifeless, sterile in a way that was far more disturbing than ivied ruins crumbling into an empty land.  
Even nature had stayed its hand; though gardens bloomed they had not overrun the houses.

To the south loomed Taniquetil, taller than any mountain on the Earth, dwarfing even Everest. Sheer to the East, but here, facing the lands of Valinor wound up the great road to Ilmarin amidst its everlasting snows. Always that mountain had frowned down over the Eldar below.

Vanimöré came to the palace square, Mindon Eldaliéva rising moon-coloured toward the sky, though the lamp that had once shone down through the Calacirya and across the Shadowy Seas was long dark. The palace, with its elegant pillars and stonework faced the Mindon, great doors wide open to the wind that blew up from the sea.

_Echoes in the stone._

He drew the shape of his ethereal fingers through the marble, feeling the hiss and prick and slide of each atom.

The past still dwelt here. He could hear it, see the memories of those who had gone: the first newness and enthusiasm as the city on the hill was raised, the swift footsteps of children on the cobbles; the fires that flashed between the House of Finwë, the passionate grief and rage of Fëanor’s speech before the Mindon, speaking the Oath that would run like a black thread through the lives of Men and Elves, and bring them down...

He saw the echoes and his soul wept.

Beyond the Mahanaxar rose the green mound once crowned by Laurelin and Telperion. All that was left now were massive stumps, black and rotted. The Trees, when they had stood, had been giants; a city could have sheltered under their boughs. Yet no power of the gods could bring back the Trees, though they had been willing to break the Silmarils to recreate them. Ungoliant’s poison had gone too deep.  
  
A woman knelt between the decaying stumps, her grey hood drawn close over her head. Nienna who wept and, hearing her endless keening, Vanimöré knew her mad, lost in the pit of her mind.  
  
There were Valar in the Mahanaxar; not all of them, and they stood in a circle facing inward, the few Elves who attended them and Eönwë, drawn apart. Ingwë, Finarfin and two of his children: Finrod and Galadriel. Blank-eyed as lovely dolls they watched — save Eönwë. His eyes, ice-storm eyes of wind-whipped grey and silver and thundercloud-black widened under his dark brows and turned, searching.  
  
_Prince of the Winds..._  
  
Vanimöré looked, then, at the Warrior, and incandescent rage blazed up. Almost he could not control it; it set him alight with vengeance. Then, the brush of power against him, and his name: _Vanimöré._ A reminder to withhold. Yet Elgalad’s mind shook in its tranquility like a forest pool rocked by earthquake. He too, was furious. But his presence, the sharp spike of _hate-resentment-hurt_ served to divert Vanimöré, though the earth trembled in the Mahanaxar.  
  
The Valar, eyes shut, deep within their summoning, felt nothing. Varda’s proud face was lifted toward the sun which dimmed.  
Coldagnir would feel that and react. Vanimöré sent _Nemrúshkeraz, hold._  
  
The air shivered and split like a gaping mouth. Beyond, through the distortion, lay the other side: a glimpse of green, of rock, a smear of water. A breath of mountain air stole through, strange, new and ancient both. Life in a sterile land.  
  
Still the Valar strove. The Portal would collapse unless they worked to keep it open. So long had Valinor been severed from the world, it took all they had to tear a gap in the wall they had built around their land.  
  
Vanimöré regarded the Portal, turned to survey the Warrior. He balanced judgment, possibilities, and waited. It was one of the hardest things he had done. Power surged and was withdrawn, agonisingly.  
  
‘Thou must go,’ Eönwë said to the Warrior. A voice of anger, thunder on the wind. Clouds surged above the peak of Taniquetil, and buried it. Lightning filled the high air, running across the whole sky.  
  
The Warrior drew his sword, a crisp salute, and walked without fear or trepidation toward the Portal. There was a flash of light which collapsed in on itself, and he was gone.  
  
Vanimöré would have prayed had there been anyone or anything to pray to.  
He drew on physical form as the Valar broke from their circle and saw the slap of horror twist their features. Light radiated out, slamming across the land.  
  
He gave them no chance to speak, rising on triple wings, unleashing his will, his fury, and wrenching their native power out of them without pity. They seemed to fold in on themselves like dolls losing their stuffing, and revealing what they truly were under the glamour.  
  
And it brought the absent Valar in a rush. He had known it would.  
  
‘Wouldst thou join them?’ His words cracked across the sky. ‘I hold this pair—‘ He stabbed a forefinger toward the reduced figures of Manwë and Námo, one a sour-faced old man with eyes that saw and hated, the other a mantid-ghoul shape, hunched in tattered robes. ‘To blame; the offence rests primarily on their shoulders, but all of thee colluded or ignored. Their power is gone, and they — all of thee — will be imprisoned upon Taniquetil until they are judged. And not by me, by those who suffered.’  
  
Aulë bent to one knee and Vanimöré almost recoiled. He said contemptuously, ‘It is not me thou shouldst bow to!’  
  
Irmo glided forward in a mist of robes. ‘The Dead?’  
  
‘The Halls of the Dead will be opened. And now, thou shalt go with these,’ a flick of the hand. ‘To Taniquetil which I will seal shut until the time comes for judgement. Thy fate is not in my hands, although I know to the last flickering thought within all of thee every action and inaction, everything that was done — or not done. Now, _go._.’  
  
His will compelled them. But Námo screeched a hollow, chittering laugh like a madman.  
‘We made him to kill.’ Clawed hands scratched at the grass. ‘To kill. And kill he will, will will.’  
  
A flash of thought hurled him to his back. Vanimöré descended, picked him up by the collar of his robes. Námo smelt of opened graves.  
‘Thou didst make _nothing_ , vulture of the dead, ghoul, thou didst only corrupt. And fire _will burn it clean_ ’ He wanted to eviscerate this monster bare-handed, but others had a greater claim. He opened his hands so that Námo dropped, crumpling. ‘Be. Gone.’  
  
They went perforce. Vanimöré turned to Eönwë.

‘Watch them,’ he gestured to the Elves. ‘I would free them but I wish others to be here. And as for thee, thy chains are gone, Prince of the Winds.’  
  
‘Who art thou?’ Eönwë asked.  
  
‘Nothing,’ Vanimöré said and shrugged. ‘Everything.’ He sketched a Portal in the air.  
  
‘The fire,’ Elgalad said, standing there as his true self, silvery and perilous. His eyes burned with the consuming light of dead universes. ‘Bring the fire, Vanimöré.’  
  
‘ _Yes,_ ’ Vanimöré felt a frisson of near-sensual pleasure. ‘ _Fos Almir._ ’  
  
He called it from within. Primal, terrible, the Light of the beginning—and the end. It exploded like a volcanic eruption into the sky, a pillar of fire that outreached the clouds and burned their undersides to blood. A shockwave travelled around all Valinor and out through the Portal to the world beyond. Vanimöré called it back, so that it concentrated around the Portal, a ring of Fire.  
  
‘The Flame Imperishable,’ he said to Eönwë, caressing his fingers through it watching it kiss his flesh. ‘Maker of gods. Or rather the element that returns them to their true selves. The Blood of Fire.’  
  
He took a breath and stepped back through.  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Refers to events in Dark Lands and Dark Blood.


	30. ~ The Edges, Unravelling ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did say the last chapter was the penultimate one, but this last one would have been far too long and I’m still writing it. So I think this chapter is the penultimate. (Hopefully!) 
> 
> * Poem The Unappeasable Host, by William Butler Yeats.

  
  


**~ The Edges, Unraveling ~**

**~ Marcus ~**

~ The day filled with stillness that felt like threat, the final hours before the outbreak of a war. To the West, the immense, slow-building thundercloud spread and rose, towering over the mountains and loch.

The day passed with the slowness of dripping honey, yet hours skipped by. Time itself stuttered now.

Marcus, unable to concentrate on anything, and prepared as he would ever be, went down to the stable. Rob Roi was as restless as he, striking one hoof on the concrete floor like a warning. He pushed his great head into Marcus’ hand and blew, but then tossed it free, ears pricked.

_Leon_ , he sent and felt his twin’s instant response, heard him: _Marcus, my love. We are in the hills, waiting for this evening._

Leon looked up toward the brooding mountains.  
_He means to go, then? With you_?

Leon laughed grimly. _He can leave any time he wishes, this one. He wants to see what will happen here, and in Valinor. And so do I. I simply wish to_ go.

Elation tinged with fear swelled like a wave under Marcus’ breast. _So do I._ And he felt the connection of the emotion between them. _But has he said anything_?

_Nothing, but he finds it interesting._

_Yes, I suppose he would._ He took a long, light breath. It seemed filled with electricity. _And, so. In a few hours we will be gone, forever. We will step into our true birthright._

Leon’s mind gleamed. _Yes. Do you ever think what would have happened had we not regained our true selves? I have. I asked Sauron._

_Did you now? And what did he say?_

_He said that we would not have made it to thirty, if as long,_ Leon told him dryly. _That he, in his own universe, had experimented with such things. Mortal bodies cannot hold the souls of demigods or gods. There is a price, as with Elves. A case of_ the flame that burns twice as bright burns half as long. _It would have been a brief life, and probably a heart attack or brain aneurysm would have taken us young. It was why he had to find an Elven woman to bear him a son. There were experiments prior to us. We were a success, the others were...not._

_The cold bastard,_ Marcus bit.

_Well, naturally._ Leon sounded a little amused at his anger. _He is Sauron._

Marcus let that pass, for now. _And then what? When we had died_?

_Our souls would return to the Halls of Waiting. I suppose the Valar could have forced us into rebirth time after time, or imprisoned us there — until the doom upon us was broken. And our punishment was nothing compared to that set upon the Exiles and the Fëanorions. We were barely an afterthought. They were never released—_

Marcus turned then, feeling...something. It was visceral, experienced on a deep level of his soul. An explosion under his ribcage that was not physical. A passage of power...

_Are you feeling this_ he shot to Leon. _What_

Sauron’s voice, shockingly crisp and clear with its undertone of honeyed, vicious mockery, startled Marcus when it said, _Yes, a passage of power in a way. My son has stripped it from that ghoul, Námo, among others. What you feel, Marcus, is the breaking of the Doom. And that,_ as Marcus flinched, conscious of an explosion of pure fire and could almost see it, so that he stared up at the sky, expecting to see it burning. _Is the Flame Imperishable._

OooOooO

**~ Midsummer Sun. Midwinter Ice ~**

~ The great eagle circled, fire in its wings, clear, fierce eyes on the earth below. Nothing escaped its gaze: the soldiers in the hills, the scurry of a grouse into cover, the curious nosing of a rat around one of the empty village houses.

Coldagnir could neither see Eru nor sense him, but he both sensed and saw the portal Vanimöré opened and closed behind him.  
The village and land lay quiet, after, settled into a brooding silence.

Waiting.

Tilting higher, he observed Sauron and Leon travelling in a spun-shadow of Sauron’s devising, and Coldagnir thought of Taur-na-Fuin, whence Sauron had fled after his defeat by Huan. Then too, he had woven darkness around him. He and Leon were invisible to the SAS watchers and Vanimöré’s people.

The Blackwater stirred in the windless air, shimmering silver back at the sky.

The day wound onward and the sense of approaching storm grew, as if an anvil were preparing to fall upon them. The air was stretched, wavering at whiles like a heat-haze.

_The edges are unravelling. All those other worlds just beyond..._

The sun, westering, had long vanished behind that titanic and slow-spreading thundercloud that was eating up the sky. A storm, but not one sent by the Valar to Middle-earth. No, this was a direct product of the energies building here, in and around this quiet village. If Vanya were not here, nothing would be left after; the village and land around would be razed, left barren as the surface of the Moon.

Then he felt the drag of energy from himself, from the hidden sun, and his wings blazed fire in instant reaction.

_Nemrúshkeraz_! Vanimöré’s mind-shout. _Hold._

And so he waited, but sought the thief’s identity and found it. Varda, once a star goddess even as he was a star god, she had thought to rule all of them, and believed she had.

He could have withdrawn the power, or intensified it to burn her up in solar flame, but he hung on the air, obedient to Vanimöré’s command and, after a time, the drain ceased.

He scanned the land, saw the movement below that did not trouble to conceal itself. Movement in a world that seemed caught in glass.

From the pinewood, onto the track Rob Roi and Claire had galloped toward the Blackwater, emerged a stag. Pure white it was, tall as a Shire-horse, with an immense spread of antlers that looked grown of pale marble. Its eyes were glittering hoarfrost. A spirit of winter on Midsummer Eve.

Coldagnir called acknowledgment and the white stag dipped its lordly head.

The Sun God was at the height of his power this day, and in this hemisphere, but soon to cede to the Dark Half of the year. There was no time now for the rituals that he and Edenel had, on occasion, enacted and made their own. A pity. There was a certain thrill in bending the knee in surrender to the implacable cold of the Winter King. Perhaps in another place, another time...

And then the shockwave broke over the land. The air cracked like shattering ice. The thin place became transparent and Coldagnir saw into another world. A pillar of fire speared upward clear into the stratosphere. The earth trembled, and lightning illuminated the dark thunderhead.

He saw Vanimöré and Elgalad step from a Portal. Vanimöré smouldered with rage. He was almost too much his true self, and the air warped around him. Elgalad too, was very near _himself_ all light and a mist of gems...a starry wind...

Coldagnir had his own memories and knowledge of Elgalad, and Eru.

_Light, fire, love, power, command._ Loyalty.

He descended in upward-streaming fire. The White Stag tossed up its head. The air shivered; for a moment, he still bore the great antlers like a crown, and then Edenel was sprinting with the long, light hunter’s stride that spurned the leagues under his booted feet.

Vanimöré waited for them at the entrance to the Hall’s driveway. The power around him was dangerously evident: wings of flame, of black fire.  
‘It is time,’ he said.

Edenel stepped up to him. ‘I know,’ he said. And: ‘What is it?’

Vanimöré’s face shivered then moulded back into its enamel calm.  
‘I can prevent something from happening, but once it has happened it cannot be unmade,’ he said precisely. ‘Even the destruction of a universe does not blot everything out. Because I was inattentive, monstrosities happened. If I change it, it will only occur in a different stream of time. And so I will not. It is so _close_ now and must play out. There is such a heaviness to reality, Edenel. Once a thing _becomes_ , it possesses such _weight._ ’

Edenel stared at him, but the mind behind his eyes was closed. He turned his gaze to Elgalad.  
‘Thou knowest it.’

‘Yes, Edenel.’

Edenel pushed his mind into those fathomless eyes, which seemed to draw him in, as if he dived into a pool that had no bottom...

Vanimöré’s hand gripped his arm. ‘No.’ The protectiveness burned like spilling fire over Edenel’s skin.  
_So protective of him still. Even now. Even still, after everything._

Elgalad smiled, a faint smile, sweet as clover honey.

It was the purity, Edenel knew. Vanimöré craved it. He could not bear dross, dirt in mind or body. He was drawn, always to fineness, to mannered beauty, to the whiteness of a fire’s core that could strip flesh from bone. He wanted to protect the innocence he had lost in Angband and Barad-dûr. He longed for the _immaculate._  
Edenel understood completely. When one has been raped, mind and body, by profanity, one turns to the opposite: to innocence — or to the cleansing fire.

Vanimöré, drawn irresistibly to the fire, yet desired to protect the innocence. Even when he and Elgalad had been lovers, Edenel knew that Vanimöré had been afraid to _take_ , afraid almost to touch, considering himself unclean. And so he gave, profligately, with both hands.

‘Edenel.’ Vanimöré’s voice was taut as wire, but a caress lay under it. His hand moved to Edenel’s cheek. They had, always, understood one another.  
‘Forgive me, but we have no _time_. It is on us, _now._ ’ Then he looked up. ‘They come.’

He strode up the drive. The front entrance door was open, and in the hall had gathered the others.

Vanimöré stopped as Maglor and Tindómion came. Armoured, superb, ready for battle. Princes of the Blood from a time out of legend.

None of them bowed easily. Edenel had been forced to his knees, as had Coldagnir and Vanimöré but willingly, they bent the knee to few. The Fëanorions merited it. The world seemed to fall away before them as they walked.

Blood of Fire.

OooOooO

**~ Blood of Fire ~**

~ Maglor settled both gauntleted hands on his son’s wide shoulders and stared at him. Framed by the steel of the helm, Tindómion’s face was as marble. With bronze hair braided and drawn back, he might have been Fëanor before the Doom, save that the silver eyes were Maglor’s own.

‘If everything ends today,’ Maglor said with a flood of sheer pride in his son. ‘I have known thee. But I do not believe it will end. This is a beginning.’

‘ _Yes._ White teeth flashed. ‘Father, we are ourselves again. It has been too long.’

Too long indeed, hidden under glamour, forever moving, always strangers in a world that had forgotten them. Old, musty tales that people dismissed as myth.

The muscles tightened in Maglor’s stomach, a sensation like to anticipation, meeting a long-desired lover, yet far more visceral and profound. The blood pulsed under his skin.

‘A relief,’ Tindómion said. ‘To be rid of pretence.’ Voice on the edge of laughter, he gestured toward the modern clothes flung into a hamper in the corner, discarded forever along with the glamour. No matter what happened, never again would they have to disguise themselves. Maglor had accepted the necessity and detested it, more as the years, the centuries, the millennia, spun onward with no end, (it seemed) in sight.

Tindómion wore the armour lightly as silk and naturally as his own skin. Maglor remembered that, after a certain point, one did. Whatever they had been in Valinor, when the Noldor came to Endor most of them became warriors — whether they wished to or not. This was especially true of those who lived on the front line: The March of Maedhros, the Gap, Dorthonion, Barad Eithel and the fortresses of the Ered Wethrin.

Every man and woman, whatever their employment, could wield a bow, dagger or sword, could walk out of smithy or kitchen, granary or rise from their looms and put on gear of war. They were on the edge, always, of conflict and even in the years of the Long Peace, refused to become complacent with Thangorodrim glowering at them in the North. (And its memories burning always in Maedhros’ eyes, volcanic fire and fury — and pain).

The Eldar — all Elves — possessed power, but there were no magic tricks such as in books or films. They could use and weave the essence of the Arda and beyond; their strength and speed ideally suited them to be warriors and hunters. Yet they had had to train and _learn_. Maglor recalled, with sorrow and bitter pride how Maedhros had learned to use his left hand as his sword hand. The Eldar were naturally ambidextrous, but Maedhros had favoured his right to hold his sword, using the left for his dagger. His face, as he trained, had been set in absolute resolution. The scars of his torment faded into nothing leaving him as beautiful as he had ever been in Valinor, and his magnificent copper hair, so cruelly cropped, had grown back to its impressive length, but the wounds within remained. His brothers could see them.

Maedhros punished himself: for their father’s death, for his own capture and for those dark and secret things within him drawn out by torture in the Hells of Iron. He refused to be anything other than excellent, and drove himself harder than any under his command.

And excellent he had become, perilous and deadly.  
It was no mere legend that the orc hordes had fled before his face. Flame of the North, his warriors had called him, and said, _The Flame still burns in the North, and as long as it burns, Beleriand will be free._  
When the Dagor Bragollach torched the north, burned Ard Galen to ashen ruin, yet Himring had held. Maedhros’ fire burned hotter, it seemed.

The orcs had a simpler name for Maedhros, one they screamed when he came down upon them, when they fled and died on his sword: The Red Death, or only _Death._ They knew destruction when they saw it. Maedhros had no mercy. None at all.

The Flame had guttered after Nirnaeth Arnoediad, blown hard by the bitter northern winds that scoured the bones of the unnumbered dead and moaned over _Haudh-en-Ndengin_. And he had ended, like their father, in Fire.

_Always, the Fire._

He opened his eyes, saw Tindómion’s looking back at him with so much understanding, so much love. And with hard, shining steel in his unblinking gaze.

_We earned what we are._

Whatever the Elves were to become, he was always _Elda_. What he knew, what he had learned, he had _earned._ In blood, and fire and agony. So had Edenel, and that remote, beautiful, god. Vanimöré. He walked like a king, like a warrior born, but he too, carried scars behind the violet eyes and they plunged into abyssal deeps. Maglor had to admire anyone who bore their wounds with stoicism. After Angband, even after the wreck of the Tears, Maedhros had never, once, wept. None of the Fëanorions showed their emotions through tears. Fury, bitterness, cruelty, madness, defiance. Never tears, not after their father burned away into ash.

He shook the thoughts away (tucked them close) and slid back the shutter of the silver casing. Within, the two Silmarils burned. The room coruscated with motes of light, turned the air into a living kaleidoscope. It was like standing in the midst of a supergiant star. The energy of it centred at Maglor’s heart, warming it, then spread through his veins. The sensation of his father’s love, but hotter now, fierce and eager as a call to battle; the silvery trump of the Noldor in the first days of Endorë, before it became a cry of defiance — and death.

‘And soon, the third,’ Tindómion’s eyes flared bright as lightning. ‘The last.’

‘Yes.’ Maglor handed one of the jewels to Tindómion. They carefully tucked each into the leather scrip on their sword-belts and closed them. The room seemed night-dark when the light was withdrawn.  
‘Now, we will go to them, Tindómion Istelion Fëanorion.’

And then, came a roar of power and with it a vision seen in the minds eye rather than on the visible spectrum, and yet here, too, was flash of light; the walls rattled and the windows shook.

A pillar of fire. It was not here, in this world, but Maglor knew that it would be sensed on every world that existed. And the Flame was like no other in any universe. For a moment, he saw it reflected in his son’s eyes.

‘The Flame calls,’ he said. ‘It always, always does.’

They had known, somehow. They were waiting like an honour guard in the hall: Claire, Marcus, Luc, Vanya and the woman whom had arrived here yesterday, Martha. All but Vanya were on-edge, eyes wide. The aftershock of the fire still rubbed on the edge of the senses.

The door was open, and Maglor saw Vanimöré approaching with Edenel and Coldagnir. They were striding as if to war, and air around them was febrile.

Every one of them bowed as, together Maglor and Tindómion walked out.

Vanimöré inclined his head as to an emperor, a god, and when he raised it, there was a storm in his eyes, a war of emotions Maglor could not unravel, all but one of them, and he had seen that in his father’s eyes: pride. For a moment Vanimöré looked as if he would speak, but then the stern, full lips folded over silence.

‘Art thou not coming?’ Maglor asked, feeling that a great many things had never been said between them.

‘I am,’ Vanimöré said.

‘And then?’

‘To the Timeless Halls, as I have promised.’

Maglor nodded. ‘Will we see thee after, in Valinor?’

‘Maglor,’ There was something about the curl of his accent about the name...’Thou wert High King when during Maedhros’ imprisonment and kept thy brothers and people together, and then thou wert Prince and Lord of the Gap. Thou doth not need me. I will come to open the Timeless Halls to thee all, when thou art sufficiently healed.’

‘There will be no true healing,’ Maglor said, with a weight of knowledge in his chest like an anvil. ‘Will there? We will — and they will — always remember.’

‘Thou art correct,’ Vanimöré said, not honeying the words or his tone. ‘No true healing, unless I cause thee to forget.’

Maglor was absolutely still.

‘I can do it.’ A smile, cynical, self-mocking quirked Vanimöré’s mouth, brief and soon gone. ‘And then what wouldst thou be?  
Thy memories, experiences are thy heritage, all the pain and the power of it. They would be gone, erased. Thou wouldst have no access to them. It would be like beginning anew. Dost thou want it?’ he shot. ‘I can take everything away in an eyeblink. Everything thou hast been, suffered, accomplished. Every tear, every love. Everything. A new beginning. _Dost thou want it_?’

Beside him, Tindómion stirred like a rousing panther. Maglor met his eyes, saw the outrage there.

‘ _No,_ ’ he responded, shaken by the thought. ‘No...Hells, what are we if we are not ourselves?’ The memories. Terrible. Precious.  
‘No.’

‘So,’ Vanimöré murmured. ‘No, we do not heal, Maglor; we simply learn to live with it.’

‘Who _art thou_?’ The words came like an echo, a demand from another time and place. _A red sky through barred windows, sheets that slid against his skin, the scent of sandalwood and violet eyes, half mocking, wholly understanding._

The world faded (it was fading already, hazing at the edges). Maglor recalled the cold forges at Formenos, the eerie glare backlighting a scatter of amethysts that burned radiantly, fire-hot and icy both. That memory matched the Vanimöré’s eyes. His heat burned liked a glacier.

Snapping the moment, Vanimöré spun away, walked to the doorway where Vanya and Martha waited.

Maglor turned back to Tindómion. The air felt hot and stinging against his face, like blown smuts from a great bonfire.  
‘Come,’ he said.

OooOooO

**~ Sister and Brother ~**

‘I will protect,’ Vanya told Vanimöré. ‘It is all I can do. And that will...’ Her mouth quirked. ‘Test me a little.’

‘I know,’ he replied softly. ‘I have faith in thee, my dear.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘And thou,’ with a quick smile at Martha. ‘Stay out of trouble.’

‘You know they’ll have drones out, filming,’ she said tensely.

‘They will film nothing,’ Vanimöré assured her easily. ‘I suspect that with so much power coming down, they will not even see. But even if they did, the SAS are bound under the official secrets act. Even if one were to talk, in a world of so many lies and conspiracy theories, none of which come near the truth, who would believe them?’

She nodded, folded her arms. ‘And you would deal with it, if they did.’

‘If it were needful. And if thou doth see anything, thou wilt not speak of it, Martha.’

‘I’m not stupid,’ she responded with a flash of spirit. ‘Mr. Steele.’

‘Not at all,’ he agreed. ‘But it bears remembering. I have cleared the current DDE staff, but any woman or man can be turned if the temptation is great enough. Or the threat. Howard was. And it is not only enemy states who would be interested in what thou hast seen, and what thou might yet see. Our own allies can be ruthless enough, as can this government.’

‘I know.’ She did. ‘Are you...er...coming back, then?’

‘My work here is done, but yes, at whiles, to see my sister, look in at the DDE and my other interests. But the duty I have taken on myself — to rectify a mistake — is to find the Elves left in these worlds and return them to what — where — they should be. But it is not easy.’

Martha frowned and Vanya interposed in her rich voice: ‘To always hide one’s true self, my dear, is a strain, and breeds rage. My brother leaves almost all of himself and his power on the _Outside._ That is a hard thing to control, harder to accept. It is not in anyone’s nature to be _less_. All of us strive in one way or another, all of us look up, even the gods. Humankind has ever raised their eyes to the stars. Only the Corrupted are content to rut in the pit, hating and fearing the light.’

Martha’s eyes followed where Maglor and Tindómion strode down the drive. They were so very bright against the dim light of this day. She thought: _They’re walking out of this world._

_They’re so_ bright.

She felt like weeping, not from grief or sorrow, but awe, the impossible wonder of it, the doorway opening to something deeper and more astounding, more ancient, than anything she had ever dreamed of.

_Darshan_ , she remembered, was the Sanskrit word, to behold the sacred or holy in physical form. But who was to say the sacred or holy was _kind_?

‘Have you ever gone back?’ she blurted. ‘To _then_? Middle-earth? To when you could be yourself?’

‘I have thought of it,’ Vanimöré admitted ‘In Middle-earth I never needed to glamour myself, not even among the people of the South or East, where the Elves were called demons, yet accepted as real. But it has been many thousands of years since anyone of Elven blood could walk on this world unglamoured. For me, weeks or months is an irritation; for those two — except perhaps for one or two people they trusted — it has been since before recorded history they could be who they are. But there would need to be a compelling reason. I do not particularly wish to run into _myself_.’ _And it would hurt. I would want to go among them, change everything..._

Martha broke into a sharp, shaken laugh. ‘Yes, I see. That _would_ be strange.’ She scrubbed her hands over her face.

‘Strange? Martha, he is a bastard.’ He winked, and Martha choked, half-laugh, half-sob. ‘I must go.’ He nodded to both of them. ‘Thou wilt be safe enough here.’

He fell in behind the others, hearing his sister say softly. ‘He needs to be away from here for a while.’

‘But you....are his sister, and you—‘

‘Long ago the Earth bore me up, nourished me, fed me, comforted me in my long wandering,’ Vanya told her. ‘Long ago and in the universe that is gone, I chose this. Or perhaps it chose me. We are twins but I chose this, and my brother chose the fire, the stars, all the tragedy and glory of it.’

Vanimöré checked himself, unforgiving. His sister had trailed across the world searching for him, the only thing she remembered, and he had not _known_.

_Peace, my brother._ Her thought reached him with love. _It was meant._

_Nothing is meant,_ he flashed. _Nothing. Only things done and not done. Only mistakes._

_My mistakes._

He did not look back.

**~ Martha ~**

~ Martha pinched the bridge of her nose and felt Vanya’s cool fingers on her forehead. The nascent headache eased.

‘Too much power,’ Vanya said. ‘This is how thou art feeling it.’

Martha nodded. ‘It feels like a barometric pressure headache. But still, I want to see.’

Vanya’s gaze seemed to come from far distant. ‘Dost thou?’ she murmured. ‘Really?’ Then she looked away. ‘One cannot see what my brother truly is, not in this world, not him or the others. And yet, it might still be too much. Thou wouldst have to knit thyself anew, after. There is no greater power in play in any universe than that which is here, today. But thou hast done well so far, and my brother appreciates the strength in thee. He chose thee for that and intelligence and the depth in thee. One of mine, and he saw it. ‘

Martha felt a tingling chill rise to her head. ‘What does that even mean?’

‘Thou knowest what it means.’ Vanya smiled a little. ‘Claire, thyself, Luc, he _sees_ thee. And the truth is, he sees very little. The world slides by him for the most part. He does not live day by day, but eternity to eternity. When one has lost everything, when all that is left is duty, it takes a great deal to think of anything beyond that. Thou wouldst cut thyself open trying to get close to him, but he has _seen_ thee.’

Martha knew that. She thought of Howard’s funeral when so many had not noticed ‘Lucien Steele’ because he did not wish it. But that ran both ways. He moved like a wolf through a wheat field, unconscious of the stalks that brushed his flanks, focussed on something beyond. Or something within.

No-one gets close to him. Not really. He shuts himself away, walls himself up. The Earth could destroy itself in nuclear holocaust and I doubt he would bat an eyelid.

‘He would not,’ Vanya said. ‘It would not be he who caused it. Art thou still sure thou wouldst _see._ ’

‘I...yes, but...What about the military observers?’ she asked, dry-mouthed and resolute, the adrenaline pumping. ‘Even if the drones are destroyed...’

Vanya shrugged elegantly. ‘I agree with my brother. There will be too much power for them to see anything. Of course they will know _something_ has happened. If Vanimöré does not come back to deal with it, I will. People forget so easily.’

‘You...look after everything here when he’s gone,’ Martha realised.

‘Of course.’ Vanya lifted a black brow. ‘I am a caretaker. Apollyon Enterprises is the least of it and only the most public. I protect what is his. Sometimes he is gone for many years.’

She plucked a garment from the coat rack beside the door. It was a great cloak, red as autumn berries that floated light as silk. She covered herself in it, swept it around Martha’s shoulders and it swirled like a cloud. She could see out, but she felt that within it, no-one could see her. She moved in a mist of the Mother’s making. Reaching out her fingers she touched the cloth; it felt cool, tenuous, rainwater-soft.

‘Where does he go?’ She heard her voice come as if from a distance.

‘To the _Outside_. Or sometimes here, but in the wild places, where the night is dark and the stars are clear. He finds peace in being alone.’

Yes, Martha thought. He was a loner. Even masquerading as Lucien Steele, Vanimöré exuded a _touch me not_ aura. He was charming, dangerously so, but behind that was a wall of something colder than a mountain of black ice. It was not depression or melancholy; it was, she understood now, grief; the grief of a Power that has seen a universe end. The thought rocked her anew, left her senses reeling. Physicists and astronomers might talk of the end of the universe, but she doubted any of them had ever imagined what it would be like. Such a stretch of the imagination was impossible.

_Unless one is broken open._

‘Why did he wait so long?’ she asked. ‘The Elves, they’ve been here for...thousands of years. He could, I assume, have come here in any century.’

Vanya paused. ‘Thrice, he has looked from the _Outside_. Once, before the universe ended. Twice, after it. The first time to an ancient world, the second time to this one. This is the time he saw, so this time is where he comes, or rather, decades before, and spends that time building a fortune.’

Martha thought of the deep files, and even they were more intriguing than informative, but some of the information was damning. Lucien Steele’s history was...interesting. Political figures and governments had used him as an assassin. He had fought in mercenary armies. It was how he had founded his colossal fortune. Many of those people and governments were long dead and gone, but there was enough for him to hold a threat over their heads.

‘Oh yes,’ Vanya said softly. ‘He knows a great many very dirty secrets. Enough to topple governments and regimes. In the end, they are afraid of him. It is better to keep on his good side and not pry too much into his life. Assassins have been sent, even from this country. It never ends terribly well for them.’

‘But—‘

‘It is not something that your department has anything to do with, Martha; he deals with it himself. He likes to pit his wits against the world and play it. He finds it rather amusing. He creates wealth because it allows him to remain apart from everyone. He spins a web of influence over decades. Coming from Oil money thyself, my dear, thou knowest that money buys anything, everything. And it is the killer of all conscience. Vanimöré knows that better than anyone. As does Sauron. To have vast wealth is to have power. Neither of them are afraid to bring that power to bear.’

Martha frowned in the shadows. _The games of gods._  
‘Has he ever thought of ruling the world, making it a paradise?’

‘No,’ Vanya said simply. ‘He could. I could. So, too, could Sauron, and that was his intention. As for my brother and I, no. Humankind must make their own way.’ She sounded almost kind. ‘If the gods were to meddle, thou wouldst never learn, but be forever children. Vanimöré knows it would be easy to do anything. Too easy. Better to tread lightly. Believe me, it is much better for humankind when gods take no interest in thee.’

Martha’s mind supplied an image (or Vanya showed it). She thought of an asteroid, hurtling through space, inevitable, unstoppable and on a collision course. There was no way of escaping it, and when it struck, it annihilated.

That would be how it would feel to have Vanimöré’s mind upon one. It was not something one could survive. Her own mind spun with the thought. She clutched at Vanya’s arm without thinking.

‘Yes,’ Vanya said simply. ‘Thou canst see it.’  
She lead Martha out of the house, around the Hall to the stable block where Rob Roi screamed, and crashed his forefeet against the stable door. Martha heard her speak, a melodious string of words. She drew back the bolts and pushed the door wide.

The stallion surged out, muscles moving under his glossy hide, a white ring around his eyes. But he stood, quivering, as Vanya laid a hand on his arched neck.  
‘Thou doth belong with them,’ she said. ‘So go, greatheart.’

His hooves danced on the tarmac. His mane tossed like black flame. Bunching those great hindquarters was gone, vanishing around the corner of the Hall, and Martha heard his hooves hammer up the drive.

‘He is from an ancient bloodline,’ Vanya told her. ‘A throwback in the truest sense, to a war stallion, Seran, who has existed in every world Vanimöré has. Seran carried Vanimöré into battle across the Harad and Rhûn. Rob Roi even has some of those memories. There is no horse like him in this world. He belongs there, where they go.’

They turned. From the tack room came the angry, indignant wail of a feline. Vanya paused, then opened the door. A pure white cat shot out, ears flat against its head. It, too, streaked away down the drive.

They followed the stallion in the flowing mist of the Mother’s blood-red cloak, down the drive, up the narrow road and onto the track that lead up to the Blackwater. The sky over it boiled like a cauldron.

A hum sounded in the air. On the edge of hearing at first, it grew, and the ground reverberated with it, so that it set the teeth on edge.

Then white beams of light speared into the sky as each ancient stones blasted power upward. The menhir on the opposite shore of the Blackwater was the centre. And then another circle formed, smaller, buried stones that showed nothing, perhaps but a scar of rock above ground. Buried thousands of years ago, the first line of protection against the creature in the lake, now they were awoken. The light formed lintels, a Stonehenge of brilliance. Portals.

The sky reeled; the massive thunderhead boiled and crashed earthward. Beyond the rings of light, mountains and loch frayed, ash drifting from a burning parchment, drifting into nothingness as the Otherworld slammed in and took their place.

Valinor opened before them: the Pelori, white titans challenging the stars, Tirion, pale and empty and proud on its hill, and the lands beyond.

Lightning bolts struck the ground; the air hissed with electricity.

Beyond the circle, rain fell like a cannonade.

‘No further,’ Vanya warned. The cloak rippled around them. Martha’s eyes watered, not with tears but at the brightness. She blinked. Vanya touched her forehead.  
_See then, if thou wilt. Just for a moment._

Vanya had said what Martha saw was not the whole truth. Now she saw the truth. She had thought of Claire and Luc, even Marcus as ‘human’, but...

Claire’s hair unravelled behind her like a rosy cloak, scattering a drift of autumn leaves, umber and scarlet and bronze. For a heartbeat, a huge Harvest Moon shone in the sky.  
Luc’s long braids wove with the rootwork and webwork or some great tree. The earth and rock parted like the sea for him.  
Marcus drew a shadow behind him, bright and dark both, steel and stars and dark fire.

Maglor and Tindómion, striding together, looked like princes of war come from beyond Time, from a world older, more vivid, wider, wilder. Far more perilous. Light rippled about them, and their auras were star-flame, war banners lifted from their souls.

The Sun God held himself in the blazing sky, vast wings outspread and his face could not be looked upon, just as the naked sun cannot. Edenel’s white hair shed snowflakes that struck the ground in daggers of ice and flint and a blizzard followed his steps.

Vanimöré (who would never again be Lucien Steele to Martha) was the centre of a cosmic explosion, his black hair streaming unbound to the twelve winds, netted by the swirl of galaxies, flowing out of this world into unimaginable others. In his tracks came blood and ancient firestorms, and the rock cracked under his booted tread, venting steam from the heart of the Earth.

_Darshan_.

_Enough now,_ came the Mother’s voice. _Enough._

Yes. Enough.

There was a poem, and Martha could not remember it.

There was a poem...it matched her comprehension, now, of the _difference._ She had come up against it in this place, and somewhere, in the future, there might be a door, narrow and perilous, but now she was of the Earth, and this...

This was not.

They were not.

The poet had understood the temptation and the peril.

And now she remembered.

_  
The Danaan children laugh, in cradles of wrought gold,  
And clap their hands together, and half close their eyes,  
For they will ride the North when the ger-eagle flies,  
With heavy whitening wings, and a heart fallen cold:  
I kiss my wailing child and press it to my breast,  
And hear the narrow graves calling my child and me.  
Desolate winds that cry over the wandering sea;  
Desolate winds that hover in the flaming West;  
Desolate winds that beat the doors of Heaven, and beat  
The doors of Hell and blow there many a whimpering ghost;  
O heart the winds have shaken, the unappeasable host  
Is comelier than candles at Mother Mary's feet. _

Martha was not Catholic; there was no conflict, but she understood, then what Yeats instinctively knew. He had written of the Tuatha de Danaan, but call them what you would, Fae, Elves, once they entranced you, there was no escaping the desire, the longing. The soul knew no peace.

That _deadly_ allure.

_And the distance between us._

_Yes. It’s enough. For now, it is enough._

OooOooO


	31. ~ A Creator’s Games ~

  
  
  
  
  
  


**~ A Creator’s Games ~**

~ ‘Earthquake?’

Lily Lambert eyed her readings. ‘No seismic activity, Captain.’

‘Radiation?’

‘Normal background count.’

‘Then what the—‘

Lambert raised a hand. She could see nothing, feeling nothing, but...  
‘There,’ she half-whispered the word as if to speak any louder would alert the phenomena to her presence.

‘What?’

‘You can’t see it if you look at it. Peripheral vision. Oh. My. God.’

There was a moment of silence, then the captain exclaimed, bit it off.

‘You see it?’ Lily murmured.

‘I see it. A pillar of fire...’

‘You’d see that from the ISS if it was real,’ Lambert murmured. ‘If it was _here_ , rather. There’s no volcanic eruption, no nuclear bomb...’

After a minute or so, the image faded though Lambert could feel how it burned on her retina, like an unwary glance at the sun and she swallowed. They had been briefed, and every Asterion employee was of the kind of mindset to believe in such things, but even so. Having an open mind was not the same as having it ripped open.

_Get a grip._

She shook herself, and glanced across the shoulder of the mountain. Asterion were strung out along it, like the SAS soldiers lower down. She had set up her portable by an enormous, half-buried boulder. They were there to ‘observe’, but also to take action if necessary and all of them were armed.

Beside her, ‘Captain’ Beth Baker, hunkered down. Asterion was not part of the Armed Forces and the army ranks were hardly official; nevertheless, if their boss gave someone a rank, it stuck. Baker was ex-army, in fact and had been heard to say she considered this a promotion. Lambert didn’t know the woman’s history, but would have bet sexism was in there somewhere. Baker looked as delicate as a painted scroll, and could put down any man in Asterion.

‘It’s not here,’ Lambert said. ‘Not in this world.’

Baker peered over her shoulder. ‘Which means what exactly? What are you and your computer telling me?’

Lambert chewed violently on her gum for a few seconds and slapped her hand down. ‘It’s _telling_ me that I don’t have the equipment here to read what’s happening, unless we have a Scottish equivalent to the LHC under these mountains.’ her eyes narrowed. ‘You can measure it with the Hubble Law, you can observe its effects on the Universe as a whole, but...’ She shrugged.

‘Measure what?’ Baker snapped.

‘Dark Energy,’ Lambert said.

‘And why the _hell_ — Look, just continue to monitor the readings.’ Baker moved away.

Fifteen minutes later Lambert did get a reading, but no-one needed it. They could see it: White beams of light rocketed upward from the ground, within it she was sure there was a fireball. Within it, if anyone could bear to look at it even through the dark goggles was (perhaps) a figure with wings of flame.

‘My god.’ Lambert swore, ducking her head automatically.

‘What?’ Baker demanded.

‘That can’t be right,’ Lambert whispered.

‘What?’

‘The readings —

‘Hold up! Here they come.’

Two sharp-moulded grey drones came in fast and low over the hills. Lambert snorted to herself but her eyes narrowed as she adjusted the sights to watch them.

‘Get down,’ the captain snapped. ‘If they hit that —‘  
  
They did not. Whips of fire exploded out of the lightwall. The drones exploded, debris scattering. Lambert’s instruments spiked then the screens went black.  
‘Shit,’ she exclaimed.  
  
‘Whoops,’ came the captain’s voice. ‘Bloody hell.’  
  
‘Stupid,’ Lambert muttered. ‘Standard Operation Procedure though. No imagination.’  
  
Baker grunted agreement. ‘They had to be seen to use them.’  
  
Lambert was staring at the lightwall, not giving a single fuck about the drones. There were rumours in Asterion, but she had never come this close to seeing anything _otherworldly_ before. A little light-headed, she bit her lip. My gods, what she wouldn’t give to be on the other side. But if anything was alive there, it couldn’t be _human_.  
  
Her instruments were down, but prior to that it was the energy she could _not_ read, but nevertheless suspected of being there, that disturbed. Dark Energy, distributed across space and time, expanding as the universe does and so never diluting with the expansion. If calculations were correct it comprised 68% of the universe, and all of its vacuum.  
  
_Is that what he is_? she wondered. _Or am I being too simplistic_?  
  
‘I’m thinking we should pull back,’ Baker said. ‘That solar flare or whatever it was...’  
  
‘Maybe,’ Lambert murmured. ‘But everything’s being contained behind that, now.’ She nodded at the lightwall.  
  
‘I hope you’re right. And I hope it stays there.’  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**~ Power ~**

_Power._

Vanimöré felt it as a growing thunder in the blood, a pulse in his ears.

And all of them walked into it. The mountains looked as if painted on glass, close and dark, ready to break and fall on them. The air was brittle, singed paper, flaking away to reveal the worlds beyond. Against it, Tindómion and Maglor _shone._

_It is coming._ It was here.

Now.

White pillars of light exploded into the sky, and Vanimöré felt the change in the air as the _Otherworld_ slammed aside the tenuous reality of the Earth. It was vivid, sharp as the taste of frost on the tongue, potent as the fumes of brandy. Intoxicating. Yet the cool part of his mind forever in the Monument cautioned restraint. This was an antechamber of Valinor, but not Valinor itself where he could shrug on the coat of his full power.

_Well, I will use what I can. Nemrúshkeraz, go aloft. Deal with any drones._

With a rush and shimmer, Coldagnir took to the air on a firebird’s crimson wings. Claire and Luc spun to watch him, and it was then, perhaps, both of them made the full mental transition from their lives to this reality.

They were within circles of light, and beyond it, hidden now, was the world they had come from. Lightning plummeted down as if to join with the energy surging upward. The air was full of ozone as Valinor spread before them, but it was not the only reality here. Doorways of light flickered and through each of them, he saw other planes of existence.

Urgency gripped them all, a mental contagion that quickened their pace from walk to jog. Then they began to run.

There was a thunder of hooves as Rob Roi reached them. He went up on his hind legs, neck arched, then thudded down. With a scream of challenge, he moved toward Claire and Marcus, cantered alongside. There was no fear in him.

Vanimöré turned to Elgalad. ‘I want thee to stay with Marcus and Claire and Luc.’

The silver head bent a little. ‘If thou wilt.’ And then. ‘Believe me, I am sorry.’

Vanimöré shrugged. ‘What is done is done.’

‘It is,’ Elgalad agreed, softly, his scent like flowers in the rain, the promise of rest. ‘And I wish thou couldst sleep without dreaming.’

_Flowers in the rain. Nights showered with stars. A wind like baked spice blowing from vast deserts. The constant, gentle fall of leaves in the northern autumn, the dusty-steel scent of snow on the air. A bedchamber somewhere, soft woollen blankets smelling of lavender, easing into sleep as the winds foamed through the trees._

‘Canst thou?’ Vanimöré asked, bitter as poisoned honey.

‘No.’ Elgalad turned, silver hair bright as chromium. ‘I will stay with them.’

Vanimöré stared after him, unsmiling.  
_And watch him, and watch for Eru,_ he sent to Coldagnir.

_I will._

Vanimöré caught at the Firebird’s mind as he rose.  
The air was splintering glass, a Mirror, cracking. Then, as Coldagnir’s elevation allowed him to see what those on the ground could not, he transformed into himself, face blazing. Vanimöré slapped a command across his mind, mentally shook him. _I_ know! _Nemrúshkeraz, the drones._

He held the shock and rage for a moment in both hands, like a glass ball that would at any moment shatter. Coldagnir’s curse raked across his mind, then came the unwilling, forced acceptance.

Vanimöré released him, and fell into the so-familiar and too-long-absent reactions of battle. He had been _bred_ to battle and war since childhood and this was his element, when everything seemed to happen at once yet in slow-motion. In this world, it was as close to his old life as he was able to come, and despite everything, he revelled in it.

Unthinking, he drew the twin swords from their sheathes in a hiss as they crested the rise. The Blackwater lay below them. Looking back, Vanimöré saw the others against the light. They did not look like their old selves any-more. They could not be, not here; the raw power would kill them in an instant. _This is their old blood surfacing._

Claire’s blowing hair was like the molten run of red-gold against. Fallen leaves skittered down the slope and past him. Autumn leaves.

_Andúnië._ Beginnings and endings. Thresholds.

_But the power is new to her, and so she is vulnerable._

There was a rush and _thump_ of heat as power rolled out of Coldagnir in solar flares that struck the two drones skimming over the vague hills. Each flare was as controlled and precise as the snap of a Balrog’s whip. One after another they exploded, scattering burning metal across rock and heather. Acrid smoke rose lazily. It seemed so far away, something viewed through waxed paper, or a silken screen. And it was retreating all the time.

Maglor and Tindómion had frozen, like statues of warriors in some museum of antiquity. For a heartbeat, Vanimöré thought Maglor might throw down his sword and run toward what he saw — or thought he saw. But Maglor had been too long a warrior. He lifted his blade. It caught Coldagnir’s fire and burned along the length like a streak of light.

Then he strode lightly, down the slope to the lake, toward the Warrior.

Who raised his sword, and began to walk to meet him.

It was that which gave Maglor pause, which stiffened Tindómion, beside him. It was the stride of a warrior, yes, but an enemy bent on slaughter.

Hair bound back, face clasped by the cheek-guards of the tall helm, yet still his face showed clear under it. Beautiful as a god’s, stern as a carving and the eyes, silver-blue under lashes so thick they smudged the lids with shadow, were blank as frosted glass.

Vanimöré took a running jump down the slope, the lock churning silver on his left. Stopping, he whirled back to face Maglor and Tindómion and his voice, accustomed to commanding armies, rang out over the hills. There was blood in it and thunder and the ring of steel tempered in a dark god’s forge.  
‘Manwë and Námo wanted a warrior. Yes, they have Eönwë, but he was always their slave. And this, this has a certain poisonous poetry.’ _And how much, how very much, they must have relished it._ ‘They took his soul as he died and brought him back, stealing his memories. Their power is gone, now. I have taken it, and they are prisoners awaiting judgment.  
But _he_ must be broken out of his imprisonment, what they trained him to be, and what he is: The greatest Warrior of Middle-earth. He must awaken to himself and reclaim his soul. It is still there, within him. We need the three Silmarils, Maglor Fëanorion. Summon the last one to _burn him free._ ’ His voice dropped. He fixed his eyes on Maglor’s. ‘Summon it. _Now_.’

The water in the lake convulsed. The Warrior was still moving. Maglor’s eyes accused Vanimöré in one burning silver slash.

‘ _Now_ , Maglor.’ _For this thou wilt not forgive me, and I accept it._

With a curse, Maglor unlatched his scrip and drew out the Silmaril. Tindómion took out the other. The jewels burnt the air.

_Once I held thee,_  
_And my flesh burned_  
_Light Hallowed by envy_  
_Light become pain_  
_Light become shadow_  
_Now I call thee_  
_To the hand that cursed thee_  
_Jewel of the Sea_  
_To join Air and Earth_  
_By the blood within me_  
_Of Fire and starflame_  
_I **command** thee._

With each word, the irrefusable command in Maglor’s voice rose, strumming the light as though power itself were a harp that could be played. The last sentence rang the aether.

And the Silmaril came. It came like a bullet of coruscating brilliance. The air was radiant. The Silmarils were brighter.

_Edenel,_ Vanimöré said, and walked to engage the Warrior. _He, too, may not trust me again, but it was too late._

The ice-flash of Edenel’s emotion struck him, and pain blazed through his mind.

_It had happened,_ he said coldly because he could not afford anything else, not now. _It would have happened somewhere else if not here. I told thee. Events have weight. They can be prevented at the outset, not at any other time. So we deal with it here. Now._

He did not think Edenel would join him, but then he was there. Both of them strode to meet the Warrior who was, now, running alongside the Blackwater. He must have borne such an expression on his face when he challenged the gates of Angband.

_We cannot kill him,_ Edenel exclaimed in a kind of horror. _Even now._

_Not kill him. Just keep him from Maglor and Tindómion._

Vanimöré launched into a dead run, straight toward the Warrior. The Silmarils light cast a black shadow before him.

The Warrior slowed, slipped expertly into the posture of defence and angled his own blade. But Vanimöré meant only to get past him, to place himself behind and Edenel in front, so that the Warrior would be forced to engage both of them.

The track that ran beside the loch was bounded by the water and the steeply rising hill on his right. At the last moment, at full run, he sprang onto the slope, pushed off it with one foot and leaped down, whirling back to face the Warrior. Who, as he expected, turned. Vanimöré backed away, waiting.  
  
Edenel said, ‘Son of my brother. Remember whom thou art, Fingolfin, second-born of Finwë.’  
  
And Fingolfin, the Warrior, turned quickly back. For one moment, Vanimöré had seen those star-blue eyes flicker.  
  
Vanimöré cast one part of his mind aside; the part that felt, saw a battle as a living entity, every flow and ebb of it. He watched Fingolfin; he sensed the others.  
  
And then he attacked, and at the last moment spun aside, continuing the revolutions so that Fingolfin was forced to follow him. Their fighting styles were not alike, but Vanimöré came up against a clash as their sword blades met and disengaged. He was smiling, he knew, despite everything, with the sheer exhilaration of it.  
  
The Blackwater fountained upward.  
  
In an explosion of silvery spray, came the monster.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

~ ‘Now,’ Mairon murmured.

He and Leon had watched as the power came down, as the world fell away. They watched as the Warrior walked out of a Portal that collapsed behind him, and moved toward the Blackwater.

Mairon’s eyes, lit into ember by power, followed his progress.  
‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘Quite clever. I do not think their influence will hold, however. Not now. Come.’

He did not follow the Warrior, but struck up over the hill above the Blackwater.

‘Are we not going to help?’ Leon demanded, holding back.

‘If you think my son and and a few gods need any help you have not been paying attention,’ Mairon replied. ‘Neither do I think they would appreciate my help. But I _do_ want to see what happens.’ His white smile glinted. ‘And I have a wager with myself.’

From the higher ground, one could see the solitary menhir pulsing power, the surge of the water and beyond that, the inner and outer circles as all the stones poured energy into the air. Through it, showed another world, but within the doorways created by the stones, Leon glimpsed yet others.  
Mairon’s eyes narrowed.

Marcus stood with Claire and a young man he had never seen before, and with Elgalad.  
‘Marcus,’ he whispered tautly.

‘Patience,’ Marion chided. Leon shuddered like a leashed hound.

‘Valinor,’ Mairon murmured. ‘It was much more interesting when last I was there. But then it was a different universe. Still, if the dead are reborn, I am sure it will become rather...lively.’

Leon flicked him a look. ‘Is it real? Valinor? Could we just walk into it?’

‘Through a portal.’ He gestured at the other worlds. ‘Eru has been opening these to create uncertainty. Now, Valinor is the most evident of these worlds. There.’ He indicated a fire-ringed Portal beyond the Blackwater. ‘But I would not wager on it remaining so. There is too much power at play here, and more to come. And through the other doorways are different worlds.’ Mairon’s teeth showed. ‘One, you can be sure, will not lead to either Valinor or Arda. Think about it. Eru has done this for just one reason. He wants the woman.’

Marcus gazed at the figure of Claire and a chill ghosted through his flesh.  
‘And where will you go?’ he asked.

‘The Portals are not vital to me, not with the Mirror Shard, but can you not sense how my son’s power grows? When he becomes his true self, he can control me.’ There was a bite in those words. ‘We may be able to come to an arrangement, but I am not waiting around to be chained again. Still, Vanimöré is rather distracted at the moment.’

OooOooO

~ So long down there, in the black and icy depths, clutching the light to it as if it were the only thing left in its ruined world.

The creature heaved itself out of the water on a travelling wave of _wrongness_. Little wonder even the most voracious and fearsome denizens of the deep oceans had avoided it, that the Blackwater was barren, that the ancient peoples had felt it and warded against it. The monster was nothing natural. The hands of gods had taken it, experimented with it, grown it, and mutated it.

There was something of the slug about its skin and the heaving mass that moved faster than one would expect. Under that skin, the dripping slime, movement rippled and pushed. Vanimöré thought of the manifestation of Ungoliant on the Isle of Plagues, the contorted faces that screamed against the noxious skin of her abdomen. It was too similar.

As it rose, vestigial arms pushed out. A man’s arms, and the more terrible for it. Not simply a mutation, a gestalt, something that had never existed and was never meant to.

The arms groped as if blind, reaching for the jewel. Above them, where a head should have been, was an inward-puckering suck of flesh, a tight-curled calyx.

Maglor and Tindómion squared off as the monstrosity crawled onto the raw rock of the shore. Maglor’s eyes fixed on it, there was horror there, and disgust but a summing expression. How long would it take to kill? He had slain a Balrog when the Gap was taken. This thing was larger, but slower, and it did not wield fire.

The aperture dribbled a black stream, then with a sickening suddenness a length shot out of it, parody’s of a man’s phallus, save that the head was a male face, perfect and pale, poised on the ten foot length. Black liquid dripped over and down its face like a beard. The mouth drooled and gaped, spat out a great gout of slime. It spattered and smoked on the ground, stinking. A vapour rose and with it a shadow: the protean shadows of the sorcery that had created it.

The sound came from Maglor; a cry of rage and horror that halted even the Warrior’s deadly dance.

‘ _No_!’ Maglor’s voice went through every brain that heard it like the flying stroke of an axe.

The thing’s eyes were senseless, thought and intelligence long departed the horror of the body. All brightness had drained from them, their diamond beauty stolen, poisoned to the colour of polluted mud. But the face was the same, absolutely the same.

‘ _Father_!’

_Maglor,_ Vanimöré thought, sent out. _Do not succumb, not even now._  
  
A light raged about the Fëanorion, the _too much_. His father’s blood, the fire of it, igniting in his soul.  
  
The neck-shaft, obscenely, drew in, then erupted again and again, the face spitting venom. Maglor and Tindómion were forced to dodge from its path. The neck was too thin for the monstrous body, but muscular and whippy as a snake.  
  
Elgalad said urgently, ‘Get back,’ to Claire, whose muscles had locked in shock. Stiffly, she allowed him to draw them back up the slope.  
  
The thing paused, then slowly its head lowered to Maglor. Face-to-face they were for a moment, the two identical profiles.  
  
It did not spit. A terrible groan issued from its mouth and it could be seen its tongue was gone, sliced away. The voice that had enspelled its hearers and declaimed the Oath could no longer speak. Poison dribbled sluggishly down its chin.  
  
With a sound almost as inhuman, Maglor drew back his sword to drive it into the mad, lost, beloved face, because some horrors _cannot_ be endured.  
  
And the three Silmarils exploded into silver-white incandescence.  
  
Their brilliance bleached all colour from the air, and set the massive power gathered in this one place into a tortured _scream_ of stress.  
  
_Too much power,_ Vanimöré thought. _There is too much._  
  
The light formed the figure of a man.  
  
‘Macalurë.’ His voice was deep, resonant as the tone of a bronze bell. His eyes blazed like lightning. ‘The Silmarils were a repository for my spirit. When Námo forced me into rebirth, twisted me into horror, I sent all of my _self_ into the jewels. What was left possessed enough self-awareness to realise what was done to it, and to hate it. It knew the Silmaril and clung to it there in the icy deeps.’  
  
The creature moaned; its head disappeared in an obscene gulp, as it swallowed by the sphincter. Ripples ran the length of its flesh.  
  
‘ _Father_?’ Maglor asked soundlessly. His sword lowered.  
  
That smile, so familiar, a brilliant, seductive flash. ‘They hated me and feared me, Manwë and Námo, or rather, my potential. All they could see was that I broke their laws by desiring and loving my half-brother. Dost thou see?’ He lifted a shining hand toward the monster, the rectal opening, the phallus that could emerge from it, spewing poison. ‘Their imaginations are so debased. But now, I will take everything back,’ the Silmarils pronounced. ‘I am going to rebirth myself.’  
  
The figure vanished, became the jewels, three of them blazing, then melting into one. The light elongated into the shape of a spear. It launched itself directly at the monster, at the opening that still drooled toxin.  
  
There was a moment of absolute stillness. Then the monster writhed, twisted like a poisoned slug. Smoke seeped from the opening, black and foul. There was stench of burning blubber, and a guttural howl, muffled and sickening rose from the thing. Maglor took a step forward, sword raised, his face blank with horror.  
  
The rubbery hide split, in long, dry lines like over-cooked meat. The cracks widened, and in one last, gasping heave, the phallic neck shot out, the head gouting a poisonous vomit.  
  
Then it collapsed, dead, but the body heaved, breaking open...  
  
...And out of it, crawled a man. He dragged himself free of the blubber, the slime. White light danced over his skin, cleansing it.  
  
For a moment he remained on hands and knees, black hair spilling around him, then, slowly, he came to his feet. Naked, magnificent, he put up his arms and pushed back the cloud of hair from his face.  
  
There was no confusion in him. No moment when one could see he remembered, and regathered himself. He knew. Everything. His expression was absolutely himself: Vivid, burningly intelligent.  
  
‘Father.’ And there was no doubt in Maglor either. He took four running steps and they clashed together, father and son.  
  
The Warrior stiffened. Vanimöré’s eyes flicked to him. He had, anyhow, to look away from the reunion. Fëanor’s love: unending, enduring, almost fearsome in its concentrated power.  
  
Opposite Vanimöré and on the other side of the Warrior, Edenel stepped back. His lovely head was raised, turned toward Fëanor but then he whipped back as Fingolfin moved.  
  
_No,_ Vanimöré said. _Let him go now._  
  
Fëanor released his son and turned, began to walk. The play of muscle and sinew in the tall and perfect body was a poem, but written into it was a warning of destruction. Vanimöré realised: _He is a god already. He does not need Fos Almir_. He is _it._.  
  
It was possible. Vanimöré had forced himself through apotheosis; a passage of pain to ascend. There was no easy way.  
The Valar had tortured Fëanor’s spirit into godhood when they believed it broken on their rack of punishment. The Silmarils and their potential had ever been beyond them and they loathed it. But Fëanor, foresighted, had made the jewels more even than the Valar could imagine, more even than he himself imagined. They had become his soul’s refuge. As three, they had burnt Melkor’s hands black, scorched the brow on which he set them and burned his mind also, sending him into a path of nihilistic insanity. Separated, they still called on his sons, blood to blood. At the end, the one who had been Fëanor, thrust into rebirth by the Valar, had been an echo, only only, of his true self, but a scrap of awareness remained. There were no words for the pain he had suffered.  
  
Fëanor walked toward Fingolfin.  
  
‘They made me watch this,’ he said. ‘We watched, he and I, what was visited upon each of us.’ Then his voice rose. ‘Fingolfin! Nolofinwë! Half-brother. Lover.’ His smiled burned out. ‘My most magnificent obsession.’  
  
He was unarmed. He needed no armour. A rising wind, glittering like diamond-dust, cast out his hair in shining darkness.  
  
‘Fingolfin.’ Said with Power.  
  
The Warrior slowed his steps. Shifted the grip on his sword. It rose, light-sheened silver over Fëanor’s unprotected head. He did not even look up. Instead, he took his half-brother’s face in both hands and drew it toward him.  
‘To wake the enchanted prince with a kiss,’ he said.  
  
And did.  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

~ The ground shuddered. Vanimöré and Edenel froze, looking at one another.

‘There is too much power,’ Vanimöré said flatly. ‘That fool, Eru. Or no, not a fool. He cares nothing. And it would not even be the equivalent of a bomb. It would cause a chain reaction of volcanism through the world. It would rip the Earth apart—‘ He shut his teeth. ‘I will have to contain it.’ His long tail of hair whipped in a sudden, violent crosswind.

‘From the Monument?’

‘And leave all of thee here?’ Vanimöré blazed. ‘Yes, I could sit in the Monument like some cowardly general who commands a battle from deep in a bunker. _No._ I will not leave thee. Wouldst thou? And do we not only have Elgalad’s word for it that Eru is gone to the _Outside_?’

‘ _Outside_ or here, this is a Creator’s power unleashed. Canst thou—‘

‘—And so am I. A poor one, I grant thee, but I am the only one who _can_ contain it.’

‘It will destroy thy body,’ Edenel stated.

A shrug. ‘It will hold for long enough. That is an advantage to what I am, what we are. The body will fail, yes. My mind will hold it.’

‘Do not,’ Edenel whispered intensely.

‘Ah, my dear, hast thou not?’ In Utumno. ‘We do what we have to do; what we can do.’  
‘I have promised Celebrimbor I will return to the Timeless Halls,’ he added, as if what he were about to do was easy, a mere diversion. ‘And so I intend to, after. Thou?’ Edenel nodded, gripped his shoulder. Their eyes met. Vanimöré smiled, kissed his brow.

The Blackwater shook in its deep foundations. A fountain of water shot upward in hot steam.

‘There is no more time.’ Vanimöré leapt up the slope. Edenel watched him stand there, firm against the unravelling storm of power. _Becoming himself_ , a presence of dark power that was almost unholy in its cold passion. He was limned with light, _darklight_ , purple and silver.

_He shapes his power, is not shaped by it. He shapes it now to control chaos. What power shaped Eru; was it love, and then hatred? But no love shaped Vanimöré, and his power is the colder, the harder, for it; an obsidian blade with fire as cold as an age of ice at its heart. Eru ought to fear him. I think maybe he does._

Vanimöré turned, looking down at Edenel and one corner of his mouth lifted in that wry, accepting smile. His eyes burned in his head like fiery gems. Then he winked, blew a kiss.  
_Til then, my dear._

OooOooO

~ The air screamed, its high, stressed note underpinned by the roar of a subterranean earthquake. The image of Valinor splintered and fell away. What replaced it was pure chaos.

Coldagnir, shaken from the skies, plummeted down in a stream of fire. Vanimöré saw the others in their groups: the Fëanorions, Fingolfin, Elgalad gleaming silver, with Claire and Luc. Marcus was with them. Blinding bolts of light fell like arrows around them. The earth shuddered and belched heat.

Vanimöré raced down the slope toward the portals. One still blazed with the fire of Fos Almir.

‘ _Go._ ’ He pitched his voice to carry through the maelstrom of violence and then planted his feet firmly. He took one deep breath.

Power answered power, whipping into him like an arrow-storm. It was not something even a god could withstand, and he could not draw on the fullness of his being, not here. Within the clangour of pain was the madness of Eru, the desperation, the anger. _So much pain. Too much._ For he and Eru both.

He opened himself to it, became the lodestone, the target it sought for and struck.

It was like and unlike the time he had permitted himself to be burned to death to save Tindómion from the same fate. But immeasurably worse. For he could not release himself to death.

_Always, there is the fire. Fire for life, fire to death._

_The price of being what we are. We can endure this and so we do._

There comes a point in which agony is eternal, all-encompassing. Every moment all there is and has ever been. No past, no present or future. But in his core, he knew he must hold; if he succumbed, allowed his physical form to fail, chaos would unravel, out of control and scything through the world, through those he loved. He curled down into himself, the child who had cried: _Father, help me,_ and realised again that no-one would help him, that this was his to endure. Alone.

And so, he burned, flesh scorching black, eating to the bone, extremities destroyed.

OooOooO

~ Mairon straightened. ‘Well, I won the damned wager,’ he muttered. ‘That son of mine is such a dramatic fool.’ He grabbed Leon’s arm. ‘Do not make two fools. What do you think you could do?’ And Leon turned on him, raging.  
‘He is your _son_! Can’t you do anything? Is he dead?’ he demanded, almost screamed. _Please make him be dead._

‘If he were Mortal of course he would be,’ Mairon returned calm as milk. ‘But he is not. He holds life in this physical form by the power of his will and what he is. If he does not, all the chaotic energy he has drawn in and holds, will unleash itself again which would be...deeply unpleasant.’ A smile flickered. ‘Oh, do not worry, He has an immensely strong will.’ He moved calmly yet quickly down toward the portals. Leon stood staring at the burning figure of Vanimöré, the slashing whips of power that struck him. Sickness rose in his gut. Closing his eyes, he turned away

_Leon_!

The call brought his eyes flashing open. Through the turmoil, he saw his twin downslope. Marcus broke into a run, and the man with the long braids and sun-olive skin caught at his arm. Marcus whirled back; Leon saw him shouting something. he shook himself free and came on, the other, after a moment, joining him.

Mairon was walking more quickly now. He did not look back. Torn, Leon took a step and heard, in his mind, Marion’s laughter. It seemed, more than anything, mocking, and he flushed.

_Leon._

Marcus had learned the power of command, the part of him (of them) that had lead armies.

Leon swore, strode down toward his twin.

OooOooO

~ Edenel came to Maglor’s side. He allowed himself one shining moment to look upon Fëanor and Fingolfin. It hurt; it always hurt and this was a day of hurt it seemed, and of partings. He shouted through the storm: ‘There! The Portal where the fire burns! _Now._ ’

He saw the questions explode in Fëanor’s eyes, his mind acute even here and now, but he moved, leading them through the madness with the power and beauty of a warship through storm-ripped seas.

‘I have many questions,’ he said in his lovely, mellifluous voice, looking back.

‘I know,’ Edenel nodded.

‘ _Why would Vanimöré do this_?’ Maglor demanded, eyes incandescent.

‘Because he can,’ Edenel shouted back. ‘Because he loves thee, all of thee.’

An expression of bewildered anger crossed the beautiful face.

‘Go!’ Edenel pushed him. ‘There is no time! He holds for thee. _Go._ ’ _Go and heal, Fëanorion. All of thee._

OooOooO

~ ‘Do not look,’ Elgalad caught at Claire’s arm. Her eyes were blurred with shocked tears. ‘He would not wish thee to.’

In a ragged group, fighting against the wildness of the power, they moved toward the Portals. Luc was at Claire’s side, Marcus and Leon came after. Their bodies strained against the gale shot with fire, with stinging ice, with energy that raised their hair in crackling clouds.

The burning doorway was ahead of them, the earth between it cracked across and steaming. The stallion, surging beside them, gave a snort and scream and veered away.

‘Robin,’ Claire called and stopped, and Elgalad saw in her eyes the flare of the portals burning fire. All of them, now alight. He saw when bewilderment struck her, her lips shaping words.

The ground rocked under them, a fissure opening. Elgalad reached out. Claire looked down, staggering as the crack widened almost under her feet, and flung herself forward — and then, within the doorway, her hands shot out, as if to hold herself back.

Fire blazed up her arms, ringed her head, which threw back in a scream of pain. Her body blazed with light. Then she fell across the Threshold.

And there was silence.

The crevasse gaped at his feet. Luc jumped, staggered away, and felt a hand grab at his arm, bite to the bone.

Marcus pulled him upright and then Luc was running, he and Marcus and Leon were all running as the world collapsed in smoke and power and the earth crazed and broke under them. Luc could see a line of Portals ahead of them and watched as Rob Roi launched himself in a beautiful flying leap through one. The stallion vanished in a rain of sparks. A white cat, tail bottled, ears flat, streaked past and was gone in crackling energy through another doorway. The gateways flashed and dropped into nothingness.

There was only one Portal left. Luc grasped at the others’ hands, felt their grips tighten on his own. And then came the point of no return, the ground giving way under their feet.

They jumped —

OooOooO

~ ‘We cannot help him,’ Coldagnir caught Edenel’s wrist. His hair was pure flame, whipped back from his face. ‘Gods can die. He cannot. He meets Eru face-to-face.’

_I know it. I know. And yet..._

Edenel looked away from the twisted, writhing figure. Burning, burning, yet still alive, endlessly, horrifically alive.

The Portals were fading, collapsing in sheets of white flame that flickered out. Wind swept down from the mountains smelling of nothing, clean as the cut of a blade.

They were gone. There was no-one here, save Vanimöré in his agony, and themselves.

‘Come on,’ Coldagnir said grimly, and they ran.

OooOooO

~ Light rippled up over claws, over a lithe, white feline form that became hands, arms, a tall, slim figure with a flowing splendour of silver hair.

Elgalad turned, knelt, then rose, looking out at the world the Portal had brought him to.

There had been so little time to be who he truly was.

_And whom is that_? he wondered. _Who am I_?

OooOooO

~ Silence, silence like a note of music. Eru gazed down at the woman laying as if in sleep on the silver-white tiles. Around her was a room hung with silks, bounded by a colonnade where flowers spilled from jewelled urns and wound about trellises. The wind was gentle as it nodded the blossoms.

Effortlessly, gently, he picked her up, placed her on a spacious divan, composed her limbs and then, he left her. The air glittered where he had been and then silence fell again. Beyond it, there sighed the breathing of a peaceful sea, mirroring Claire’s relaxed, unconscious breaths.

OooOooO

~ The power, like the sickening kiss of a despised once-lover, fell away, dropped Vanimöré to the hot earth. He vomited bile.

He raised his head, but his sight was gone, flashburned away. He began to crawl, the heat eating at the holes in his blackened flesh, whimpers falling from his charred lips. His body was bloated with internal gasses expanded by the fire (by power absorbed) and he rolled onto his side. He could not see, but he could still _feel_.

The Portals were collapsing.

He pushed himself to his knees. Something moved and gave way within him. Soundlessly he screamed, smelling his own scorched flesh. The dying energy was like acid dashed across his wounds.

Blind eyed, he crawled, retching bile and scalding blood that threatened to choke him. He was more than a god, though less here, bound by his own inflexible strictures, and so was not dead. But he should be.

_Not yet._

He edged with agonising slowness, around a great rent in he ground and slipped. His distended stomach split in a tearing agony. His lungs could not drag in enough air.

_Not far now._

He had seen Eru take Claire; in the deliberate unleashing of chaos, Eru had plucked her from the others.

_Here._

He stretched one arm-stump through. The power flared, sparked, coalesced into a hand, slim and white and unmarred. Vanimöré inched his way through, the power giving him back truth, giving him back _himself_ in a brilliant blazing pain that was no less agonising than the destruction of his body, yet was its absolute opposite. _The Flame Imperishable._ It was not kind, it was not that, creation rarely is, and this was the pure, savage passion of creation.

Vanimöré allowed himself one heartbeat, then raised himself to his feet. Reflexively, he brushed down his tunic, shook his high tail of hair, and felt for swords that would be useless here. He shrugged.

Pillars formed of ever-flowing water rose up to a crystal roof. The floor beneath him looked like fire flowing through white marble. A sound of chiming jewels, and a cloud of butterflies passed him: yellow, emerald, purple, red, star-white. One of them hovered near him; its wings were ruby and, as they vaned, the jewel rustled in a sweet, thin chime. He held out one hand and it alighted on his palm.

The Eternal Palace.

Claire was here, somewhere, and so was Eru.

How long had Eru masqueraded as Elgalad? And where _was_ Elgalad, if there even was such a person?

Vanimöré tossed the singing butterfly into the air.  
‘Very pretty, Eru. But I was not made for this, nor for the tedium of peace; I never was. The Monument is _my_ place, formed out of the ashes of a dead universe. How very apt, no? So, let us see if I can disturb thee a little.’

**~ The End  
And the Beginning,  
Of other tales. ~ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of the trilogy, _Last Night I Dreamt I went to Summerland Again,_ _A Throne of Shadows_ and this, _A Crown of Ash._  
>   
>  Thank you very much for reading, and commenting (if you did, 😘 😘) 
> 
> As always, I very deliberately left a lot of loose ends, as I don’t believe stories ever end, and certainly this one simply leads to others.  
> Claire has ended in the Eternal Palace with Eru, and Vanimöré has followed. Luc, Marcus and Leon travelled into a different universe. Fingolfin and the Fëanorions have returned to Valinor, Sauron is...wherever 😂 (He’ll always land like a cat, on his feet). Edenel and Coldagnir seek to return to the Timeless Halls. Rob Roi, who was always much more suited to a very different world, has also gone.  
>   
> As for cats... Eru transformed Elgalad into the white cat we saw at times in this story to keep him harmless. He felt he couldn’t trust him. Elgalad, now himself, has also travelled into a different universe...  
>   
> Thank you to Narya_Flame for allowing me to borrow her OC’s Claire James, and Luc Donadieu and to mention Harrison, Claire’s cousin. 🙏🏼 and their time in Edinburgh. You’re so generous, Narya 🤗


End file.
